


Let us talk of many things but never speak

by FrankieJohns



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad grammar and comma splices and feel free to point out anything truly offensive, COMPLETE NOW!, Complete, Confusion, DESPERATELY out of character communication, Dialogue Heavy, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Greg is a Saint, Guns, M/M, Minor character death (and I do mean minor as it's no one who has a name....), Mostly wrote this because I wanted to have a lot of talking, Not Beta Read, Not really a lot of sex so marked as mature, Phone Sex, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, Questioning, Season/Series 03, They love each other but I don't know when they'll say it, They're idiots you see, Trying out a style, bamf john watson shows up at some point, i like talking, inaccurate medicine, like these fuckers actually talk to each other and we know our boys hate the words and the talking, mary isn't totally horrible, mrs hudson is a saint, nor is she totally cool, poorly written lesbian sex, switching POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankieJohns/pseuds/FrankieJohns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John, I'm going to a place where you can't follow."</p><p>"Then it's not a place you should be going, Sherlock."<br/>++++++++++</p><p>Things move quickly after Sherlock is off the plane , but things are not resolved by far. Moriarty is back. Mary is pregnant. Danger is everywhere and neither Sherlock nor John knows how to say how they feel.<br/>+++++++++<br/>This is my effort at a Post-His Last Vow Fix it. Eventual Johnlock. A lot of talking. I initially wanted to write this as an all dialogue fic but I had to get in their heads too much. But seriously so much talking.<br/>+++++++++<br/>THissss fic is such a fuckin mess and honestly I was going to fix it and then I was going to delete it and now I'm just trying to my best to pretend like I didn't write something just awful. NGL I love certain parts and others are just awful soooo yeah have fun with this mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The plane taxied back and hit the ground with a thud.  The stairs were brought forward.  And then he was back. No longer going on an assignment where John would never see him again.  No longer flying away. He was there. And that meant _something_. It was only a few seconds before the plane's doors were thrown open and Sherlock appeared. Dark hair flying in the breeze and a stern look on his face. Strolling down the stairs, he focused entirely on John.  Before John could move towards Sherlock with ideas of what their plan of attack would be and how they'd finally defeat Moriarty once and for all, Mary tugged on his arm.  Her grip was firm and he couldn't move forward any further. Then John registered a look between Sherlock and Mary where they both nodded to another.  
  
"What? What was that?" was all John could say before he looked back at Mary and then to Sherlock. Mycroft called Sherlock's name and he slipped in the car with Mycroft and was gone.    
  
"Come on, John," Mary said.  For someone very pregnant she had enough strength to pull John away. His immediate reaction was to pull his arm from hers, chase after the car and Sherlock. He needs to be there to help Sherlock go up against Moriarty. If Moriarty is alive that means they are right back where they were 3 years ago and John had no desire to relive those moments of desperation, moments of torment over not saying the right thing and being the cause. It honestly is always his fault. He knows it. But fuck he has to try to do something, anything to stop it. Mary stands firm looking at him and says again, "John."  He can't run after Sherlock. Those days are gone and he knows it.  John gives her a quick, tight smile and slips into the driver's seat of their car.   
  
"I wish I could drive," Mary says. "We really need to get home. Go the limit at least?," She encourages and pats his arm for good measure.  
  
"I'm not that slow," John says and tries to prove her wrong with his meager driving skills. They get off the tarmac and onto the streets with ease. He is trying to put his mind straight despite everything that is going on. Moriarty is back but so is Sherlock. What the hell does this mean?  Do they get to pretend that Sherlock wasn’t about to leave? That he didn’t shoot a man? John Watson likes answers, orders. But the only two person who can give any just ignored him and drove away. More important things to tend to—he knows. But dammit. Left in the dark by the Holmes Brothers again. It’s not a good feeling. 

 

John successfully weaves between cars and completes a maneuver to hit their turn that makes Mary smile. Finally they arrive at home despite his penchant to go the speed limit.  He exits the car quickly and steps around to her side to help her up. Mary accepts his hand and bounds out, looks around and oddly enough seems to relax. He is tense. He carries it in his shoulders and on his face.  There is no one who can look at him and not know he is worrying about what will happen. 

So it is no surprise when Mary responds to this by taking him in her arms and ushering him to hold her tight. He does hold her but it does nothing to alleviate the knot in his stomach. In an instant two black cars pull up and four men get out. They are all wearing bespoke suits. They look like just the type that Moriarty would hire. John whirls out of Mary's arms and is on alert wishing he had his sig to help protect them both.  He looks to Mary but she says nothing.

  
"Do you know what this is all about?," John says. He looks on as two of the men take up residence in front of their house. Two of them nod to each other and seem to decide on standing guard at the gate. The other two head towards the door and then inside. They seem to already have a key and he can imagine the path they are taking.  
  
"Come on, " she says.   
  
As Mary and John enter their home  the two men come down the stairs and seem no less intimidating than they did before they were inside John's home. One tall, burly man says "Clear." And the other follows behind him and sweeps out of the front door, locking it on their way out.  Mary eases herself down onto the couch.  
  
"Oh. That's a relief, " she says as she pushes the coffee table forward. A few magazines tumble to the floor and John takes a step back. She tries to kneel on the floor but her belly is getting in the way.  
  
"Well, give us a hand," she says and gives a weak smile. John isn't sure what she needs but he steps near her and holds her hand as she eases down on her knees. After she slips her hands out of his and gets on all fours he gives her a look of curiosity then finally asks.  
  
"Mary, please tell me what is going on?"  
  
 She pulls out a slender object from her bra and presses a button. A knife blade slides up and John registers that she has had that in there for some time. At least since early this morning when they left to say goodbye to Sherlock.  She stabs the floor and after a few moments of maneuvering she lifts five boards from the floor. Beneath them are a cavalcade of guns. Many models of which John doesn't recognize but alongside them is enough ammo to help anyone become an expert on their use.  
  
"Mary," he says with a sternness in his voice that he tries to temper with a smile. He fails but continues. "What the hell is going on?"


	2. Chapter Two

The aborted confession was more than enough reason for Sherlock to flee the scene.  But then the plane's doors opened and there was John. There.  Looking up at him and trying to see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock tried to make his face blank. Disinterested. No one needed to know there were ridiculous, pointless, and utterly unwelcome tears in his eyes just a few moments earlier.

John seemed to step away from Mary and then Sherlock looked over to Mary and they locked eyes. This is what they agreed upon.

Sherlock and Mary had discussed it a month ago.  John was staying with him back at 221B but Sherlock could see soon John would do as predicted and forgive Mary. Soon he would be back with her.  And that was… good. It was fine. It was what John needed. So he had to plan for an eventuality when he could not protect John. The fact that Mary was a trained assassin did help matters quite a lot.

  
And they were here. He looked at John. Sweeping his eyes over John and appreciating that this was it. Yes, he was given one more chance to see John but it wasn't over. He looked away from John and nodded to Mary. She immediately understood and returned the nod. Sherlock took in the puzzled look on John's face and was about to explain when Mycroft called his name.  

He gave a final glance to John Hamish Watson then slipped in the car. 

  
*****

  
A week had gone by and John hadn't heard from Sherlock. Him and Mary had taken up residence at their home for the first few days then finally she declared they seemed good to go. Seamus, Edward, Albert, and Richard had become mainstays at their home. John put on the kettle to make them all a cup and flicked on the telly to hear the news.  He wasn't quite sure why really. Reporters had spent about a day talking about James  Moriarty's return but when photos of Britney Spears and Prince Harry surfaced it somehow became vastly more important to report on that as compared to the safety of the British public.  

On the second day, Mary admitted to him that Sherlock and her agreed that John should not be a part of whatever was to happen.  

  
"Fuck that," John said. Mary's eyes flew open, she took a step back. She tilted her head towards the door where Richard and Seamus were standing. Neither of them seemed to notice the yelling as they moved not a step.  Still John lowered his voice "I am not just sitting around here doing nothing."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"I'll go help."  
  
"You're going to be a father, John," Mary said. She smoothed her hand over the ever-increasing bump. "Stay here. Please?"  
  
He feels a right shit. Of course he needs to be here with her. It's not about him anymore. It's not about his fucked up addiction to....it doesn't matter.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says stepping towards her and holding he close. "I'm an ass."  
  
"You are," She says patting his back, she snuggles into the crook of his neck. "But you're our ass."  
  
"Our?"  
  
"Me and Sherlock's. We just want you safe."  
  
"That's not right, Mary. I want _you_ safe."  
  
"Do you?" He knows what she's referring to. Since he's come back he's mostly slept in the living room on the couch. They're still trying to work it out and he is trying but there is still that bit of distrust. Every day he wakes up cursing himself that he didn't just leave it to Sherlock to read the drive. When Sherlock declared one night over scotch and Chinese take-a-way that John didn't really need to read the drive, John decided to listen.    
  
" 'Course I do. 'Course. I'm here."  
  
"When you're not trying to leave." She pulls back, gives a weak smile at this. It doesn't soften the accusation and he knows she's right.  
  
"You're right. I'm sorry," he says. "It's just not easy. He doesn't really have anyone and no matter what, I have you. I just want to make sure he's okay."  
  
"Okay," she says. She pulls a piece of paper out her bra and hands it to him. It appears to have a phone number written on it. "He's expecting you."  
  
"So you knew today would be my breaking point?"  
  
"I did."  
  
"And you wrote down Sherlock's secret number to have it at the ready?"  
  
"I did," she says smiling.  

She knows him well, he thinks. He gives her a small peck on the cheek, lets go of her, and picks up his phone.  
  
"And why do you have a secret phone number for Sherlock?" He asks as he enters the number into his phone. He barely looks up to see a bit of disappointment on her face accompanied by a sad sigh

"He knew you'd want to have a…chat. Gave it to me at Christmas."  
  
"Thank you, Mary. Really," he says and walks away after giving her another quick peck on her cheek.  
  
***

  
An hour later after he called and hung up, (no voicemail or answer) he sits staring at the phone. What to text?  Sherlock, of course, steals his well-crafted opening line.  
  
_**Hello.-SH**_  
  
_**Hi.-JW**_  
  
_**How are things? -SH**_  
  
_**Things are fine.-JW**_  
  
_**I feel I have exhausted my small talk capabilities-SH**_  
  
_**You were doing very well-JW**_  
  
_**Yes, thank you. I was very impressed. -SH**_  
  
_**Sherlock, tell me what's happening.-JW**_  
  
_**I need to find what I missed that day. If Moriarty is alive then I missed something and none of us are safe. -SH**_  
_**I assume Mary let you know the plan.-SH**_  
  
_**Yes, of course she did.-JW**_  
  
_**So, she didn't.-SH**_  
_**Maybe that's for the best.-SH**_  
  
_**Sherlock, do not do what you did before.-JW**_  
  
_**I won't.  But pressure point = You. If people didn't know it before I jumped off a roof, they do know it now-SH**_  
  
_**I can help.-JW**_  
  
_**I know.-SH**_  
_**Not now. Not here.-SH**_  
  
_**Where is "here"?-JW**_  
_**The flat?-JW**_  
  
_**No, I can't be at our flat. I had Mrs. Hudson put into safe housing along with my parents.-SH**_  
  
_**Her and your mum will enjoy that.-JW**_  
  
_**I am assured by Mycroft that they have reached a peaceful agreement at this time.-SH**_  
  
_**That's something.-JW**_  
  
_**I'm with Mycroft in a safe location. I can't tell you where. The goal is to take the game out of the country and if that is true then I'm not sure when I'll be able to contact you again. If I can then it'll be over this number. It's secure.-SH**_  
  
_**So tell us. What do you have? =JW**_  
  
_**The basics. You may know only slightly less. Moriarty did not die on that roof and now he has come back just as I was about to be sent on a mission to my death-SH**_  
  
_**Wait. What? JW**_  
  
_**He must have been aware of the parameters of the mission which means he has high level of access to our government. -SH**_  
_**Thus it means I did not destroy all of his network-SH**_  
_**I missed something. SH**_  
_**I always do. SH**_  
  
_**He was dead though. You said.- JW**_  
_**(and don't think for one minute I'm forgetting that you were apparently going to your certain death)-JW**_  
_**Something else has to be going on, right?-JW**_  
_**Isn't that what you always say? Eliminate, focus, deduce?-JW**_  
  
_**You actually pay attention to my methods, John?-SH**_  
  
_**'Course I do.-JW**_  
  
_**Mycroft has come to fetch me. We're leaving soon. I'll have to cut off communications for some time-SH**_  
  
_**Where to? -JW**_  
_**Can you at least tell me which hemisphere?- JW**_  
  
_**We're here for now. If I leave the country I'll advise you. SH**_  
  
_**That'll be a nice change. -JW**_  
  
_**Yes. -SH**_  
  
_**If you need anything.- JW**_  
  
_**I know.-SH**_


	3. Chapter Three

He lies to John. He lies to John because he can't really stand to tell him the truth and honestly it has become second nature to hide things from John.  He doesn't tell John the truth when he sees him again after two years. The truth that sat on his tongue and ached to come out when he first caught sight of him. The truth that was written on his face when he pulled him from the bonfire. The same truth that was almost loosened from his tongue on John's stag night.

 

Sherlock had looked over at John in the haze and once again marveled to himself that John was here. Then John touched his knee and his breath caught. Then it was a joke. They both laughed and the nurse came to save him from the truth. The same truth that was replaced with the easy joke on the tarmac. He lies to John and tells him that he'll say goodbye if he has to leave the country. But a week later he steps off a plane in Moscow, he tries to ignore the twinge of guilt at lying to John yet again.

 

John trusts him to still call upon him for help.  Sherlock wouldn't dare. John is going to be a father. Though Sherlock can't quite understand the need to procreate, he does understand the need to devote oneself to another. That is what John has chosen.  Yes, John misses the adrenaline. And Sherlock, of course, misses seeing John high on the adrenaline.  He is transcendent when he's trying to catch his breath after they've run after or away from danger.  But it's selfishness that makes him want John for his own. John deserves better. He deserves more than Sherlock can give. So Sherlock steps out into the cold.

 

This time is different from the last because he's allowed to wear his Belstaff. So he flips up the collar and looks around. He doesn't know if he'll be noticed immediately but landing on this exclusive strip in a plane borrowed from the royal family should be enough to alert Moriarty's moles to his presence.  The purpose is to be seen. The purpose is to encourage Moriarty to leave England and take the game to a land where the casualties will hopefully be kept to a minimum. Besides it makes sense for Sherlock to be here. The signal that caused the Moriarty media blackout was traced to an old KGB foothold.

 

Sherlock is barely off the plane when gunshots ring out. He's not hit but the two men who were accompanying him are lying on the ground with bullet holes in their head. He doesn't run. There really is no point. If they wanted him dead then it's obvious they could have already done it. This will be Moriarty's famed sniper come to call.   
  
"Well? " Sherlock says. He glances around at the fairly empty location. The workers that were here have all taken cover and no one is out in the open but him. He looks up trying to place the location of the sniper then reevaluates and realizes these shots could have just as easily been a straight shot. The open area giving clean line of sight and it's a sniper's dream. Then he sees it. He can barely make out the truck parked almost a kilometer away. A sniper's hutch could easily be set up in the back.  And on cue the truck seems to spring to life, turns around, and drives towards him. When it stops, he looks at the passenger.  He always misses something.

*****

  
John  was never an artist but Mary decides she wants a starry night painted all around the baby's room and so he does his best to accommodate her wishes. Richard and Seamus are on front door duty. Edward and Albert are set to  break but instead they help John get to the rest of the bits he couldn't quite get to without someone to help. Then Mary and Richard go to her doctor’s appointment. John wanted to go but since they'd been holed up together when she shooed him away, he understood that she too wanted just a little bit of time apart.

 

He'd been testy with her lately. He didn't mean to be but it'd been a week since he heard from Sherlock. He didn't mean to keep counting down the days like he was a man in jail but he had gotten used to the counting when Sherlock had gone before. At first it was two days since Sherlock died. Then three months. Then a year. Part of John thinks if he keeps time like before Sherlock will definitely come back. But now as he's trying to dab a little star above where their baby will sleep he can't help but focus on what Sherlock had said.

 

Sherlock was being sent away to his death.  He was going to get on that plane with a joke about his name and a handshake. The selfish bastard.  _No._ It's not fair to say that. John knows.

After all it was because Sherlock was protecting John (again) that got him into a mess where he had to be sent away. Still. A week. It hits him in a moment of genius (or as close as he'll ever come to it) that the Edward and Seamus work for Mycroft. Maybe they'll know something. _Anything._  
  
"Uh guys?," He starts to say, trying to test our the waters. "Do you know anything about what Sherlock's up to?"  
  
"Orders," Edward says as he dabs a bit of blue in a corner just above the painter's tape. Seamus remains quiet. John understands. They can't say anything. He was a bit of an ass to ask really.  
  
"Yeah. 'Course." Of course from that John can try out Sherlock's methods.  Edward doesn't falter in his painting but his shoulders do tense up at that. He also gives a quick glance to Seamus. Says there is something to be hiding. And John can guess that it isn't that Sherlock is just sat at some safe house with Mycroft. It means there is a secret to be kept.

 John doesn't let on that he's figured it out because really what has he figured out. He does know what he has to do next and God help him but it has to be done. He pulls out his phone and sends a text.  
  
_**Mycroft, I want to talk to Sherlock. -JW**_  
  
Not a full minute passes before Mycroft responds.  
  
_**He is unavailable to speak with you at this time. I'd be happy to pass on any pressing news. -MH**_  
  
John isn't sure what to say. He just needs to talk to him, just make sure he's still breathing. Of course wouldn't Mycroft let him know if there was a problem? Doesn't matter. He has to hear from Sherlock.  
  
_**When can I speak to him? -JW**_  
  
_**I'll see what I can do. -MH**_  
  
_**And send my regards to Mary. -MH**_  
  
John pockets his phone and throws a paint brush towards the wall.  Edward and Seamus slink out without a word.  
  
  
"Sorry, sorry," John calls after them as they close the door. He wants to go call them back in and offer them a cup of tea in thanks. They didn't have to come help and now he's throwing a fit like a child. They're not babysitters but highly trained people. He stands and looks out the window at them as they head towards the car. He clenches and unclenches his fist.

There isn't anyone to talk to about this. Mycroft's not so subtle reminder that John should be focused elsewhere wasn't really the reminder he needed right now. Mostly because he's right. He always suspected that’s why Sherlock hated Mycroft--for being right too often and being a poncy git about it.

He _is_ focused on Mary and their child. But he isn't going to fix this without knowing Sherlock is safe.

His phone chimes and he reaches with it eagerly. Mycroft works fast when he wants to and this appears to be one of those times.  
  
  
_**Be home soon. Doctor says everything okay with the little one. XO -Mary**_  
  
  
He's glad no one can see his face. He feels like an ass. This is where he needs to be. And he has to get over this feeling. He texts Mary back and starts making dinner for her. Mary is his choice. Their daughter in his choice. Sherlock will be fine without him. He has to believe that and focus on Mary and their child.

 

*****

 

Sherlock sits in a chair he's pulled to the corner of the room. He ignores the four poster bed and the food that was left for him. He has to focus right now and try to piece things together. They confiscated his phone on arrival. The homing device that Mycroft installed in there will surely be deactivated by now. They left him in his Belstaff but using the beacon installed in the pocket is a last ditch option. For now he'll leave it off. To investigate what is happening right now he understands he can't be protected by Mycroft.  

The door opens slowly and in she steps.   
  
"Sherl, why aren't ya eatin'?" Janine says and flops onto the bed. She's wearing a man's shirt and nothing else and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at her. This was always her way of trying to seduce him.  He can appreciate the aesthetics of it all. Her firm thighs. Her curves. The sly smile on her face accompanied by the shinning eyes. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail right now. And underneath that man's shirt she doesn't have on a thing. She's beautiful. She's even sexy. He knows it. It's just not for him. It's not his area no matter how often he tried back in school.  
  
"What reason do I have to believe it's not poisoned?," He asks. He knows it isn't but he wants to keep her talking. The door is open and though she's sure to have at least one guard with her,  at least with the door open there is a chance he can leave this room and find out why he's here right now.  
  
"Now ya know it ain't. Why'd I do a thing like that?" Janine says and she pulls back the duvet and gets under the covers. She pats the space next to her. Sherlock knows a game of cat and mouse when he sees one and he's definitely not the cat. Still he goes over. He sits next to her. She smiles. "Ya know if he wanted ya gone then you'd be gone. And he doesn't. Nor do I. I _was_ your fiancé' remember?"  
  
"Yes, I do," Sherlock says. "You might've mentioned that my future brother-in-law was the man who tried to murder me on a number of occasions."  
  
"Oh ya know how brothers can be. Myk isn't much better."  
  
Sherlock didn't dislike Janine before but now she's making him stand up for Mycroft.  
  
"I'll eat. I'll sleep in the bed with you if that's what you want." He says and pops a chip in his mouth. "And what do I get out of it? What's the point of all this?" Sherlock waves his hands at the room and at her.  
  
"I am not part of 'all this'," she says. She looks vulnerable. Sherlock doesn't know if it's good acting or the reality of the situation. "I just wanted to say goodbye to ya. Before whatever is going to happen happens." She lays back and stifles a yawn.   
  
"I assume the room is bugged."  
  
"Ya assume wrong. Even if we weren't getting up to things, I wouldn't want Aedan listening in on us."  
  
"You call him Aedan?"  
  
"His real name. Ya never wondered why you couldn't find anything under Jim Moriarty older than a decade?"  
  
"I assume he had it all destroyed."  
  
"Mm. Well ya can't destroy blood. Well ya can but he kept me around. So Aedan and Aideen Moriarty became Jim and Janine. He helped me get trained. I am the best shot in the world. Male or female. I am also an excellent spy."  
  
"I agree."  
  
"I wasn't there to spy on you. It was to spy on Magnussen. You were just a bonus."  
  
"So Aedan?"  
  
"He is my brother of course. But he took care of me. When our da' wouldn't stop hitting us, Aedan stepped in. He made the old bastard leave. Then he got a job taking care us.  And....well he isn't all bad."  
  
"He's murdered countless people, Janine."  
  
"I didn't say he was perfect."  
  
"So what happens next?"  
  
"He's still in  England but he'll be here tomorrow and then I don't know. I don't want either of you to die, Sherl. Ya know. You two could've been friends."  
  
"Yes, if he didn't try to murder me and my friends then I am sure we would've been the best of buds."  
  
"Don't be like that, Sherl. Come on. You've got a big day ahead of you."

Janine looks down at the floor, says nothing.  
  
"Janine...."  
  
"No tears,  Sherl. He'll pack me off somewhere fun I'm sure. Probably America. Ach. If he's upset with me L.A. If he still cares about me then NY. But we won't see each other again."  
  
"How did he survive, Janine?"  
  
"He was never in any danger," She says. "Look take this. It's your phone. The beacon is gone. He had his guys disable it but I made sure that's all they did. You can call him if you want. Might be your last chance. I'll go. It's been real good to know you, Sherlock Holmes. I'm glad I got to see you okay one last time." Janine smiles as she slips out of the bed and then walks towards the door. She gives Sherlock a wink before opening and closing the door. He hears the lock and then closes his eyes to focus on the steps and the direction it takes her.

He is formulating a plan and he'll need to put it in action soon. Mycroft's plan to draw him away from England is at least a success.   He looks down at his phone. It looks to be the same as before. There are no contacts because Sherlock doesn't enter them. He knows John's number by heart. He punches it in and hears it dial. After the first ring he quickly calculates the time difference. It's not too late.  
  
"Sherlock?" John answers and Sherlock and can hear the sleepiness in his voice  
  
"John?"  
  
"Sherlock, it's 3am."  
  
"Oh good it's not too late then."  
  
"Sher-"  
  
"I'm sorry. It was my only chance to call and I had to take it."  
  
"What's wrong?" Sherlock can almost imagine John coming to attention, sitting up in bed, ready for action.  
  
"Nothing is wrong. This is a casual chat between friends."  
  
"Really? Casual?"  
  
"Yes. So. Hello, John. How are you today?"  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"I can't say."  
  
"So now that we both know you've left the country, how about you just tell me where you are."  
  
"Moscow."  
  
"Moscow!?"  
  
"John, you'll wake Mary."  
  
"I won't. What's in Moscow?"  
  
"Moriarty in approximately five hours."  
  
"You've found him then?"  
  
"He found me," Sherlock says. His annoyance is evident.  
  
"So what now?"  
  
"Oh you know. He tries to kill me. I try to thwart him. One of us jumps off a roof and I'll see you in two years."  
  
"Not funny, Sherlock."  
  
"I know. I-"  
  
"I-God help me. I miss you. I just wanted you to...know."   
  
"I see."  
  
"Don't get your fool-self killed. Okay Sherlock?"  
  
"I'll do my best."  
  
"Good, " John says. "Good."  
  
"Well."  
  
"Just wait. God. Don't hang up just yet."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I know you don't want me there.."  
  
"That's not--"  
  
"No, it's fine. I know you don't trust me to not let the cat out of the bag or whatever. I just wish I was there. I wish you trusted me to--"  
  
"I trust you with my life, John."  
  
"You don't have to say that."  
  
" _With_ my _life_."  
  
"Then why can't I? I can do both."  
  
"We're friends. Aren't we John?"  
  
"Of course we are, Sherlock. Of course we are. Always."  
  
"Friends protect each other."  
  
"Fine," John says and in anger he disconnects the call. He regrets it immediately and rings Sherlock back. The phone rings out. No answer. No voicemail. No Sherlock. It's not a habit he plans to get into but he can't help it. John sits the phone down the table, stands up, and  walks to the cabinet. He takes out a glass and sits it with a thunk on the table. Pours the scotch into the glass. He measures two fingers and then is honest with himself and pours two more. A quick shot isn't going to do it tonight. Hell the whole bottle isn't going to do it tonight.

He hears Mary's soft snores (made much louder due to the baby) float down from their room upstairs.  He thinks about taking a drink out to Richard and Albert in their car but he knows they can't partake. Besides he really needs to be alone. Suss out just what the fuck is going on. Figuring out just what is going on in his head has never been John's strong point. If it were then he'd never need a therapist. Or for that matter a consulting detective to cure his limp. But right now John is trying to figure it out and nothing is adding up.

He takes a quick breath and slowly releases it then takes a sip. He lets it sit on his tongue for a bit before swallowing down the harsh liquid. He's never really enjoyed scotch but it always seems to be his go to when he's picking something out.  He holds the bottle in his hands and feels the raised lettering of the brand. He moves his fingers over the curve in the bottle's neck.  He wishes he could talk to Sherlock again. What if that was their last conversation for a while? What if it was their last conversation for good?   
  
"Fuck," he says aloud. His phone chimes and he wonders if Mary is asking him to keep it down. He reaches for it and nearly collapses under the relief of seeing the message from Sherlock.  
  
_**I wish you could be here too-SH**_  
 _ **Maybe next time.SH**_  
 _ **See you soon. I expect Mary will give birth within a few weeks. I hope you'll invite me to see your daughter. Also I think you did a wonderful job on the ceiling-SH**_  
 _ **Goodbye. SH**_


	4. Chapter Four

Sherlock hangs up the phone with John and is angry. Angry at himself because he just wanted to have a conversation with John. But he had to provoke him. If he ever needed proof then this was it. He couldn't keep John happy during a ten minute conversation. No way he could do it for a lifetime. And that was a lifetime he wasn't even sure he had to give.

He plays back the events from before. Focusing on the precise details needed to change the outcome of this. Janine had walked 12 steps before a door opened and closed. Sherlock went his window and peered out. Two guards posted below his window. He was on the second floor and even then apparently Jim or Aedan (Gaelic for fire from the origination Aed--Irish mythological God of Fire/The underworld. His parents did set high and rather accurate expectations for Jim)  didn't trust that Sherlock couldn't get down and possibly escape. He has no interest in playing this particular game anymore. Not after everything. He knows he needs to find out who had allegiance to Moriarty. Easier said than done but definitely not something he'd accomplish with them playing this game. He walks to his bathroom hoping to find something of use. Inside he finds the usual toiletries. A few medical supplies. Ice pack (they must’ve assumed they’d cause him harm during the pickup).

He charges out of the bathroom and looks at the tray of food complete with tea and yes sugar. If he finds matches then he might have a way out. It's a rudimentary smoke bomb but hopefully it'll provide enough of a distraction for him to leave. A few drawer searches later and he's mixing the ingredients in the tea pot and trying to create a small fire in the sink. This will work. And he'll once again take the game elsewhere. 

*****

* * *

 

  
John gets the texts and he knows he has to do something. Calling Mycroft is never an option he wants to take but it has to be done. He hits the numbers in and presses dial. Of course Mycroft answers immediately.  
  
"Doctor Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call at 3:17am?"  
  
"Sherlock is in danger."  
  
"And what makes you think that?"  
  
"He called me."  
  
"I see. I'll see what I can do." The phone call disconnects.

* * *

*****  
The compound Sherlock is in is quiet. He really only hears the simmer or his makeshift burner as he  tries to create the smoke bomb. The beacon is in his coat. He knows he needs to get out and change the playing field but if he presses that button then he ends it quickly. At the very least he should wait until Moriarty is closer to being here. He flips through his phone at the texts and deletes all he sent to John. He wants to send more but the fact that he wants to send more is the reason why he mustn't.  

 

A text from Lestrade appears on his screen and he's not sure how he got this number but it's a welcome distraction from this waiting.

 

  
Know you're busy but this is right up your alley- GL

 

Attached is a link to a story on _The Times_ website. It's a meager story about a woman missing from a convalescent home. Each day Ms. Tamsin Shaw would go to the activities room. Every day she played the same song over and over again. In the past week however she switched the song. There is a video of her playing the simple four note melody over and over. Her final hours were caught on tape. She had somehow left her room over night. She played the new melody just once before the tape cut out. In the morning a few drops of blood were found on the keys and her body is missing. She has no relatives so the police are baffled as there is seemingly no motive. Sherlock clicks the video Lestrade sends along. The woman slowly shuffles into view of the camera. She seems to look off to the side but the camera is rudimentary. Doesn’t capture her face just he general shape. She then sits at the piano. D she plays first. It's a loud boom of a note and she lets it hang in the air. Soon she adds the light A. She pauses for a moment and adds. She pauses and looks around. The camera cuts out. 

Sherlock huffs at the 3 at best and types a reply "staff person with mother issues"  A response comes quick  
  
Air tight alibis for the lot. We've interrogated them all for hours and no one broke.-GL  
  
Interesting.-SH  
  
Will you come?-GL  
When you're finished ya know making the world Moriarty-free again? GL  
  
Yes. SH  
  
  
A few hours go by and finally Sherlock molds the bomb into the cardboard canister from the bathroom. For good measure he also activates the beacon for Mycroft. He stares out the window and sees his guards are gone. Hours have past and nothing. He distracts himself with going over the possible solutions for how Moriarty could have faked his death when he was sure of what he saw.

‘ _Ah but things are rarely what they seem when dealing with Jim Moriarty’_ He hears the mind palace version of Mycroft  chide. And he's right.  He closes the door on Mycroft chiding him in his office and takes a stroll in his mind palace. Everything is present here and so clear.  He stands on the roof of Barts after John left. John. No, focus. He sees Jim take the gun in his hand. The sun is directly behind him. The gun tilts toward his mouth. He opens it. Pause. Sherlock walks around them both. Sees what he imagined would be the shock on his face and the glee in Jim's eyes. The lines on Jim's face when his eyes crinkle reminds him of John. He indulges for a second and switches the location to 221B.

It's a night like almost any other except that John is there.  He walks in and replays the dialogue of Sunday from a few months ago. When John was back temporary and he had allowed himself to indulge. He sits in his chair across from John and waits.  
  
"Figured I'd find you here if I'd waited long enough."  
  
"Where else would I be?"  
  
"In hospital, Sherlock. That's where you're supposed to be. Instead you're wearing your clothes. Tight shirts 'n all. I expect you went out on a case."  
  
"Yes."  
  
John sighs. Sherlock pauses the playback. He looks at the look on John's face after he sighs.  His eyes cast down. He's looking away from Sherlock even though they're across from each other. The look on John's face is sheer worry and Sherlock can't quite believe it's simply because Sherlock took on a case during his recovery. Of course he would take a case. Otherwise his mind will grow stale and with the looming Magnussen hanging over his head, It is a time when he must be at his best. He presses play and lets John continue.  
  
"You're an idiot," John says. "You're going to hurt yourself before you get better and then what will we do?"  
  
Sherlock can't quite respond because he focuses on the "We" and a smile threatens to curve his lips.  
  
"Don't you grin at me like an idiot."  
  
"I'm not." Sherlock is taken aback. It was a small smile. He's not even sure how John saw it.  
  
"At least call me, yeah? If your'e going to put yourself in danger at least bring a medical profession along. I may not be able to....conduct you light anymore but at least I can keep you in good kip."  
  
"What do you mean by that?"  
  
"That I'll make sure you don't relapse and you'll get well. Eventually. Not as well as you would be if you just stayed put but it's something."  
  
"No, John. What did you mean about the ...light?"  
  
"You don't need me for the cases anymore," John says matter of factly. Sherlock can't detect any pain in the speaking of the statement. Though he feels some in hearing it.  
  
"What makes you think that?"  
  
"The fact that you don't call me for them and," John points at Sherlock. "You don't trust that I can help. You didn't call me until you were all but ready to take Magnussen down. The day of in fact. Would you have even called me if I hadn't found you in that drug den."  
  
"Of co-"  
  
"Don't lie. You wouldn't have. You didn't need me that night. You had your plan with Janine all in place. I was just there. And if, if I..."  
  
"John?" Sherlock tilts his head and looks at John. Almost pleading him to meet his eyes.  
  
"I didn't know what would happen. Maybe she wouldn't have shot you if I wasn't there. Maybe. I don't know... Either way me being there didn't seem to help."  
  
"John, I -"  
  
"Leave it, Sherlock. What's done is done."  
  
"You help. If you weren't there that night then she wouldn't have had any reason to not kill me point blank"  
  
At this John goes still and takes a quick, sharp breath. His hand in his lap clenches and Sherlock takes note that it remains in a fist. It doesn't unclench.  
  
"Is that true?"  
  
"I believe so."  
  
"And you want me to trust her? Go back to her?"  
  
"I want you..," Sherlock says.  In his mind palace he pauses the playback. If he had left it there what would John have said?  If he had laid it bare in front of him. He can't honestly deduce the outcome. Human nature is one thing. John is the most extraordinary human he's known and so that's another thing all together. Would John's eyes widen in shock? Would he leave? Stand up. Clench and unclench his fist. Shake his head at Sherlock and walk up to his room? Would he laugh and make a joke? Or assert his heterosexuality once more? Would he stand over Sherlock then crowd into him until Sherlock tipped his head back enough for John to kiss him?

He mentally hits play. "…to be happy. You deserve it after." Sherlock waves his hand. Doesn't need to say what he did. They both know. "Sorry again," he says and tries for a smile.  
  
"Yeah," John says and looks away. Fist still clenched.  
  
"So you don't want me to move back in here and things to go back to the way they were before you," John says and waves his hands. The fact that neither of them can say it probably isn't good. Ella would definitely say it's an unresolved topic in need of a progressive statement to help them move forward. John would say this works for now and that's all he needs.  
  
"No." Sherlock lies.  Of course he lies. He thought momentarily about amending it but then he let it hang in the air. Let it find its home in John's heart. Hardens it a bit.   
  
"Right. Right," John says and finally unclenches his fist. He stands up. Shakes his fingers out from the tense grip he'd held. He leans down and crowd's into Sherlock's space. For a moment Sherlock worries that he'd revealed the truth and not just imagined it. John moves closer to him. So close. Close enough for Sherlock to inhale those base signature notes of one John Hamish Watson. It takes strength Sherlock didn't know he had to not lean forward and take just take what he wants. To at least take one chaste kiss. Mere seconds of a touch that would last him a lifetime. He stays stiff-backed in his chair and lets John get close to him. Then John dips his head to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "Fuckin liar," He says then stands up and leaves.   
  
A knock at Sherlock's door brings him out of his mind palace. Normally it wouldn't matter but he's on alert. Janine enters. She's now wearing Jeans and t-shirt. Hair is dyed blonde. Apparently neither of them slept that night.  
  
"So, I'll be going now, Sherl. Good luck," She says and bounds towards him and hugs him. He allows the hug and even when she sneaks an arm around him he doesn't pull back. He does stiffen though and she notices.  
"Just pretend I'm your doctor and hug me back proper." He would comment on that but he feels a prick on his neck and everything goes dark. 

"What?" is all he gets out before his mouth stops working and things go dark. He can't move. He's failed. Trusted the wrong woman. Again.  
  
"Just a sedative, Sherl. I'll send him your love. "  
  
  
He is falling. Janine had given him a drug that worked so quick. He is falling and this time there is no set of homeless network in place to catch him. There is no John to mourn him. It's a slow fall and he has time to focus on everything around him. Registers for a moment that this must be a dream and the realism is affected by the drugs. He tries to focus. Tries to think about where Janine could be taking him. He screams at himself to wake and he does feel himself stirring a bit. His eyes flutter. He is moving. In the back of a van. It's dark. Someone has their fingers on his wrist. Checking vitals. He doesn't see a face. Just a blob of features but even in his reduced capacity he can connect the dots. If they care about taking his pulse then they also do not mean him harm. Well not immediate harm. He closes his eyes and he is still falling. He sees John no longer looking at him but walking away with Mary. He sees her swelling belly. Then in an instant she is thin and beautiful. Wearing a wedding dress and holding their baby. He calls out to John but he doesn't listen. He walks away. He hears Mrs. Hudson cooing over their baby. Molly and Lestrade are all smiles at the baby as well.  And as he gets closer to the ground he hears Mycroft say he shouldn't have gotten involved. When he finally hits with a thud and a crack he has a chance to study John's face.  There is a smile there. One that he's never seen directed at himself. John is fine. So he lets go. 

*****

* * *

  
"John, calm down, " Mary says. She pats her belly. It has been hours since John called Mycroft. He couldn't really fall back asleep and when Mary woke up she found him fully dressed and pacing. He told her exactly what happened as she puttered around making coffee (decaf for the baby) and checking the papers.   
  
"I'm as calm as I can be considering," John says. And he is. There was a time when he would have forced Mycroft to fly him to Sherlock's location. He's still here and waiting. But he's a shit and he knows it. He goes to her and wraps his arm around her. Holds her close. Lets her head fall to his shoulder and she holds on to him.  
  
"Am I losing you again?," She says. "I mean...more than I have already."  
  
"No, no," He says. "You never lost me. I'm here."  
  
She takes a step back from his arms and he isn't sure what he's said wrong. He was trying to be reassuring. But her face is stern and she wears that resolute face that says she won't hear another word.  
  
"No, you're really not."  
  
"Mary..."  
  
"It's fine. I knew what I was getting into and it's..it's fine." She takes a step towards the sink. Picks up a dish and turns on the tap. Lets the water flow over it. Her head is pointed down and it seems to John like she's trying to keep her focus on anything but the discussion they were having.   
  
He doesn't know what to say and he isn't sure that she's wrong. She's right. He's not there. He’s  wherever the hell Sherlock is and once again John is struck at what a complete ass he is. How he can't serve two masters and isn't sure which will make him less of a selfish ass really.

 

"I have contacts," She says and lets out a breathe. "They can." She stops and seems to take another steadying breath. She turns off the tap and puts the dish in the tray. "They'll take you to him. I'm sure Seb can tell you where he is..."  
  
"What?"  
  
John hears a splash but he's sure she turned the water off. He steps towards her.  
  
"Who is Seb? How do you know someone has him?"   
  
"I don't. I just know what he's like and I assume he'll want to play a game with him. That always seemed to be his thing. To stop from being bored."  
  
John isn't sure if he's hearing her right. Is she talking about Sherlock or...  
  
"Mary?," he says. Holding his fist clenched he moves closer to her. Unclenches and steps back. He turns away and takes his own breath. Mary must feel what is going on because she is also breathing heavy and quick. He tries to calm down. Wants to understand her completely. "Are you talking about Moriarty?"  
  
And she is crying. There are two tears running down her face and he wants to hold her. WILL hold her once he understands. Once she clears it up that she definitely can't be talking about the man who strapped semtex to him, poisoned children, and caused John to live through two of the hardest years of his life.  
  
"Yes," she says and she seems to cry even more. And then she cries out, "Oh, God, John. I'm sorry."  
  
Then he sees it. The splash of water and blood on the floor. The other reason for the tears and he rushes forward to her.   
  
"Mary, come on. Let's get you to hospital."  
  
"You're coming with me?"  
  
"Of course I am." He smiles and holds her hand tight. She squeezes it back even tighter and lets out a scream. He ignores the pain from her grip. "Let's go say hello to our little daughter alright?"  
  
"Thank you, John."  
  
"Richard, Edward?" John calls out for their guards and they're already inside before he can wonder if they'll help them to hospital. Edward lifts Mary. Richard grabs her night bag. They're deposited in the back of a car. Edward drives and Richard takes shot gun. The ample room in the back of the vehicle is plenty so John lays Mary down.

 

The hospital isn’t far away and Edward is weaving through traffic at high speeds and soon he can see the hospital in the distance. John wagers that it's not likely that  she'll go into labor as it's her first child and it usually will take a while. Then he realizes he doesn't know if that is actually true. This might not be her first child. They still hadn't discussed the details she left out. He doesn't want to bring it up now but he needs to know for her own health.  
  
"Is this uh." He tries to be delicate but he has to come out and say it. "Is this your first?" And he's a bastard for asking but he does need to know.  
  
"No," she says then lets out an ear curdling scream.  Edward makes a turn and goes to open the door.  John hears a thud on the window. If it was anyone else then they'd probably think the sound was a rock or a bird that hit the window but John knows what it was. He is shocked and ducks his head and goes to cover Mary then catches Richards eye. John straightens and smiles at Mary.  
  
"What was that?" She asks.  
  
"Nothing. I think a bird. Richard is just going to go get all the stuff filled out and then we'll head in the hospital." At that Richard dashes out of the car. Another bump to the window.  And another. "Just breathe Mary," he says to her and thinks it to himself. He doesn't know how many bullets these windows can take before they get through and hit them but they're on the fourth and he just hopes Richard and Edward can take care of it before long.   
  
Mary's eyes are rolled back in her head and John is worried he's losing her  
  
"Mary, stay with me."  
  
"I am. I am," she says weakly. "I was just going to a happy place where someone wasn't shooting at me while I was giving birth."  
  
"You knew?" John huffs out a laugh, "I thought you bought my bird story."  
  
"Ex-assassin remember?" She says. Gives a small laugh before screaming out in pain. "Oh, Oh. FUCK. Oh God. John it's coming. She's coming."  
  
"I'm here, Mary."  
  
"You are. You are. Thank you, Thank you so much for being here," Mary says and then her eyes roll back in her head. John pats her face gently then a lil more forcely. "Mary? Mary? Come back to me. MARY?!"


	5. Chapter Five

"So. What did you learn?"

Sherlock is barely conscious. He blinks once, twice. He is parched and wants a glass of water.  Before he can even think to ask, Mycroft is handing him a cup full of what has to be nectar of the gods because it feels so good going down. He appears to be in a bed in a hotel room. Everything is nondescript but it's all too clean and too just-so.   
  
"You are not in a hotel room," Mycroft says. "I understand you've been conscious less than five minutes but do think, Sherlock."  
  
So Sherlock does.  He picks out a memory of a few years ago that had long been cataloged away. Something to keep but not easily recalled except without a prompt. A prompt he has. Mycroft sits in an overstuffed, large burgundy chair and looks at his phone. His mouth seems to frown momentarily which is worrying, but Mycroft says nothing else.  
  
"The safe house. I was here before."  
  
"You were. I don't expect you to remember much since you were drugged out of your mind then but definitely points for remembering."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Janine is gone. She activated the beacon from your phone and left a note. Her brother was to arrive in two hours time. She apparently did not want harm to come to you for reasons unknown."  
  
"She fancies me," Sherlock says. He gives a smirk. He sits up even more and reaches for the carafe next this bed. He pours himself another cup and quickly drinks it down.  
  
"If only you could charm all the enemies of state."  
  
"Well there was also Irene Adler."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And ,James Eli, the attache to Sri Lanka."  
  
"You are very charming, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "Would you like to discuss all your lucky endeavors or shall I continue?"  
  
Sherlock gives a small nod and throws the covers off and tries to stand.  
  
"I wouldn't suggest you try too soon," Mycroft says and this of course spurns Sherlock to try even faster. He falls back on his bum with a thump.  
  
"I am not sure what drug it was she gave you but you've been out for some time."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Two days."  
  
"For God's sake. Well did you catch him at least?"  
  
"We did not. I believe the dozens of Politsii may have tipped him off to our presence."  
  
"Mycroft, this may have been our only shot at this."  
  
"Ahh but you forget brother dear."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Jim Moriarty is a tosser."  
  
Sherlock laughs. Mycroft never speaks like this and he can't help it.  Mycroft simply gives a smile and a nod as he extracts a folder from a briefcase. He tosses it on the bed. Sherlock quickly snatches it up and opens it. One sheet of paper flutters out. A photocopy of a letter. He doesn't recognize the handwriting but he knows the tone.  
  
_**"S,**_  
 _ **When J is taken away then J cannot say.**_  
 _ **The wrongdoing of M can never stop hiM.**_  
 _ **The game is simple. The solution is too.**_  
 _ **Two and Second and Give me the One.**_  
 _ **And hell let's make it fun. One D for my M.**_  
 _ **-J"**_  
  
"He wants Janine back. Thinks you've taken her. He'll send someone after you , me, or someone I care about. Obviously I can't go back to 221B. And I don't know what else he's trying to say."  
  
"Yes, I got all of that. I was hoping you might see something else based on all the time you've spent with him."  
  
"Give me about ten more minutes of consciousness if I'm meant to outshine you. The game is simple," Sherlock says repeating the part of the note that bothers him. The simple solutions are always far more complex when you add in a criminal genius to the mix.  
  
"Apparently," Mycroft says. Sherlock closes his eyes and brings up everything he knows about what is happening and it hits him that this can't be it. This isn't Moriarty's style. Just a simple note? No. There'll be more.  
  
"What else is happening?" Sherlock says. "There has to be something else. He announces himself. Has Janine attack me and then she betrays him? He'll be upset. He'll be murderous. Will want to show off in the worst of ways."  
  
"He has killed three, well actually as a few moments ago,four of my agents. My best. Ones that I've trusted with my life on a number of occasions."  
  
"Where? Take me to the location." Sherlock makes another go of it and stands firm this time. He goes to the closet thing and takes out what appears to be a new suit and yves saint laurent shoes. He'll shower later. He has to get going. Has to see what clues Moriarty left for him there. Everything will have been missed by the met or whoever Mycroft had on the scene.   
  
"Outside a hospital. Their bodies are at Bart's now. I assume you'll want to see them."  
  
"Correct." Sherlock puts on pants then trousers. He slips on a shirt and his coat. He's feeling more like himself as he stands in the mirror and sees himself fully dressed.   
  
"What are you waiting for? Come on, Mycroft." Sherlock moves towards the door.  
  
"Sherlock, first I should tell you..." Mycroft pausing is never good and Sherlock narrows his eyes. He tries to read the things that Mycroft won't tell. He comes up empty and decides to sit on the edge of the bed and be patient.  He doesn't want to ask but he has to.  
  
"Is it John?"  
  
"No, no Sherlock it's not your doctor." Mycroft says exasperated.  
  
"Then who is it? Our parents?"  
  
"God himself couldn't touch our parents without destroying the world to get to them."  
  
"I assumed as such. Then what's gotten you shaken?"  
  
"I am not 'shaken' just leery of giving you information that will set you off. You indulge in emotion far too often these days."  
  
"Mycroft."  
  
"These four agents were the ones protecting John and Mary.  They were killed outside the.."  
  
"The hospital while Mary was giving birth." Sherlock fills in the rest.  
  
"Was John or Mary hurt?" Mycroft pulls out a report and hands it to him. He flips through it quickly.  
  
"No. But the baby had the cord around its neck. From the coroner's report, John did a good job of trying to move the baby without any tools but unfortunately..."  
  
"Take me to him."  
  
"No, Sherlock. You must focus on this."  
  
"Mycroft!"  
  
"NO!"

At this Mycroft stands. He is as tall as Sherlock and they are eye level. Mycroft doesn't scream but his voice and stance betrays an emotion he never shows. Sherlock knows everything about this situation is an exception to the norm. So he gives in and tosses another on the pile.  
  
"Please?," he says. He never asks. Surely Mycroft will put aside queen and country and see his brother asking for help.  
  
"Sherlock," Mycroft says and his voice is quiet, oddly pitched with almost gentleness.  "We do not do this. So understand I feel this situation calls for an extraordinary exception."  
  
"Just say it," Sherlock spits out.  
  
"You jumped off a building for this man."  
  
"That wasn't..."  
  
"I grant you that it was also in aide of others as well as your country  but then there is the case of Magnussen."  
  
"The man was vile, Mycroft."  
  
"Nevertheless. You murdered him, Sherlock. In front of witnesses."  
  
"It was to prot-"  
  
"tect John Watson. Not Mary like you were going to say.  
  
"Sherlock, I will keep John safe. But I can't do it if you're being rash. Trust me in this brother."  
  
Sherlock knows he's right. Of course he's right. But he wants to see John. Sherlock wasn't there to help John through the last death in his life. What with him being the deceased. He wants, he needs to be there this time. Can't he at least...  
  
"I will ensure you speak to him on a secure line soon. It's the best I can do. He and Mary have been moved to a location with similar security details as our parents. They will be fine but you must focus."  
  
"When can I call him?," Sherlock asks.  
  
"Momentarily, " Mycroft says and sighs.

A knock at the door stirs both of them and they both turn towards the door. A second later Anthea walks in and hands Sherlock a phone. It is not unlike the twenty thousand pound phone Irene Adler had and Sherlock is sure Mycroft requested this. A reminder of the last time he let his heart rule his head. He nearly ruined a nation then. Perhaps this time he should aim a little lower on potential fallout.  
  
The phone begins to ring a few moments later as she hands the phone to him. Then both Anthea and Mycroft leave. Sherlock hears the door clink. He looks around. The place is probably bugged but it'll only be Mycroft's PA who'll review the conversation so he answers.  
  
"John?"

 

*****

  
"Sherlock, I...," John doesn't know what to say. He doesn't really want to say anything. The courier arrived with a phone and told him that Mr. Holmes would be awaiting his call. He expected it to be Mycroft on the other end with news of what the hell happened. How they were ambushed in a hospital parking lot. How four good men died protecting him and Mary. How a small child was sacrificed in the middle of all of this. But he didn't know what to say. Can't think of a thing. So he remains quiet hoping that Sherlock will mercifully take the cue.

He hears him breathing slowly on the other line but other than that Sherlock makes no sound. John closes his eyes. Tries to speak again.  
  
"I don't." He pauses. He knew they most likely didn't have much time and he had to use it wisely. "I want to come help you."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I mean. Yes, I would love that but it's not possible."

"Sherlock, I"

"You're in danger, John.  You are not a damsel but these people seek to hurt. You or Mary could have been hurt. We're lucky it wasn't--"  
  
"Lucky?!?" John can't help himself. He doesn't want to shout. None of this is really Sherlock's fault but he's the first person he's been able to take it out on and so he does. Because if Sherlock won't accept his help then fuck him. Fuck him for not realizing that John needs this.  
  
"Not what I meant. I'm just saying apparently the men took out four highly trained agents. According to Mycroft, It was only because Lestrade covertly added an additional detail that you and Mary made it out alive. Otherwise."  
  
"Yeah. I see."  
  
"I am sorry, John."  
  
"Just don't, Sherlock. My daughter died because of this."  
  
"But she wasn't...."  
  
"No,..don't say it. Don't. I read the report. I can only assume Mycroft gave you a copy. But she was still mine when she died. I'll still grieve for her, Sherlock. I'll still bear the responsibilities of her death. I want to help catch the people who did this."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Was it Moriarty?"  
  
"I don't know. It could be. "  
  
"What's happening with that?"  
  
"I was in Russia. Janine helped me. She's missing now. Whether it's because of her brother or because she's on the run... She's gone now. Moriarty left a note. Threatened more people. Coming after me I'm sure." Sherlock adds the last statement casually. John wants to punch him and protect him all at the same time.  
  
"So you'll go up against him again."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Without me again."  
  
"John--"  
  
"No, it's fine. It's fine." It's not bloody fine and he hates that Sherlock bleedin' Holmes can't understand that.  
  
"John, I-I want to apologize to you for before."  
  
"For what, Sherlock? God there's so much." John knows it's unfair, doesn't care.  
  
"For leaving. Two years I was gone. When I was gone I thought about...the choices I made."  
  
"Bloody stupid choices."  
  
"Yes well I am a stupid git as you have often told me."  
  
"You are."  
  
"But John I'm going to a place where you can't follow."  
  
"Then it's not a place you should be going."  
  
"If it's a place that will lead to your eventual safety then I am most definitely going."  
  
"Take me with you," John says it and each word has is said almost independent of the other. The weight of the demand is thick with John's urgent need for Sherlock to understand that he isn't asking without cause.  
  
"I can't. I should be going now. John I'll...."  
  
"No, don't hang up."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Don't you want to tell me--." John struggles for a subject. Grasping for something,anything to keep Sherlock talking. So he can pretend for a minute he's not sending his friend off to his certain death.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Don't make me say it."  
  
"I think you should."

And John can hear the playful tone in his voice. Wonders if he knows the extent of the statement he's daring John to say.  
  
"I miss you ya arse."  
  
"You miss my arse? Oh John what would Mary say?"  
  
"She'd probably understand. She's seen your ass."  
  
"I've heard it's quite nice."  
  
"It is," John says and lets it hang in the air. It's the closest they've ever come to discussing anything close to this but it's a simple admission. One John is sure everyone in the world would agree on.  
  
"So."  
  
"When you were away...tell me."  
  
"Tell you what?"  
  
"Tell me about one day when you were away. One of those days you realized that you were wrong to make me watch you off yourself. Tell me about that."  
  
"I don't think we have the time."  
  
"Make it short and sweet. Take my mind off...well everything."  
  
"Well," Sherlock says. "Close your eyes."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Are they actually closed?"   
  
John hates that he can tell they weren't but he does close them now.  
  
"Now...yes."  
  
"You were in Afghanistan. You at one point were near Tangi Valley in the Maidan Wardak Province as well?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I was there shortly after I left you. It honestly wasn't the smartest choice as a first op location but I needed to go there just to...I'm not sure."  
  
"I would go to Barts," John says. His eyes popping open at his own admission. He closes them again. "Go on," he says.  
  
"Then you know," Sherlock says. "I was embedded with 11  American soldiers. Moriarty had a high ranking official who was the cause of many weapons deals. I had to snuff him out. One night they took me out on his tail but before long we realized we had to sleep out there. We bunked down under the stars. It was beautiful."  
  
"I remember. You could reach out and almost touch them. I could never quite understand how people could look up at that sky every night and want to commit violence."  
  
"I can see the sky now. Can you, John?" Sherlock says this with almost a whisper, willing John to see, to be there with him.   
  
"Yeah. It's beautiful. It really is."  
  
"I laid under the stars thinking about how just a few short days ago me and you were in the kitchen. You were making tea. I was studying the effects of a high potassium concentrate on a diseased kidney. I knew thenMoriarty was coming but I hadn't told you. You looked over at me and smiled. I smiled back. God that night I just wanted to see you smile again. I wanted to make you smile. I fell asleep thinking about it."  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"That night we were attacked. Half of the men were killed or badly injured. I should have been alert. I should have known. But I was busy not thinking about the potential threat. I was focused on you."  
  
"Sherlock, that’s not your fault."  
  
"Mycroft is right. I have to do this for many reasons, John. I don't want more blood on my hands. Blood of people you and I care for."  
  
"Sherlock, but I can help…"  
  
"Goodbye John. I'll be in touch." 


	6. Chapter Six

John is so tired when Sherlock hangs up the phone. He was tired before but somehow after speaking to Sherlock he feels completely wrung out.  Emotionally and physically he has every reason to not even be standing right now.  
  
Back at the hospital he'd screamed for Mary to please wake up then did a quick check on the baby. He didn't have a sonogram machine but pressing his head to her stomach and there was nothing. No movement. The baby ,which had been moving nonstop for months now, wasn't doing anything.  
  
He tried to wake Mary, tried to turn the baby around by what rudimentary techniques he knew but nothing helped. Before long he was worried he couldn't get Mary back either. He heard the slump of a body hitting the car. He know it had to be Richard. If Richard was down then Mary and him might be next.  He climbed over into the front seat of the car and thankfully the keys were there.  John looked around ,tried to see what he could do for the agents. But with no weapons of his own he couldn't do much.  
  
He decided to get Mary and the baby to safety then come back. He put the car in gear and moved it forward. A spray of bullets pelted down on them. Mycroft must've given them one of the best bullet-proof cars because it sounded like a bad hail storm.   
  
Still he had to go for it. John put the car in reverse. He pulled out of the lot and on to the road. He didn't get far. A slew of NSY were stationed all around the area blocking the road. He pulled over, hopped out the car, and ran to the first car he saw. "Help me. My wife was in labor. She's not responding.  There were two agents with me but they may be dead."  
  
"John, get down." Sally Donovan got out of the passenger side of the first car and shielded John. She walked with him while calling out orders into her headset "I've got John. Mary isn't responding. He says the two other agents with him are dead. We'll need full force to take out the two snipers we spotted."  
  
She turned to John "Greg is back there.  He's going in soon with full back up. Right now they're preparing to lay down suppressing fire so they can try to stop the snipers then we'll move her. Okay John?"  
  
"Okay. Yeah. Thank you, Sally."  
  
It went down exactly as Donovan said. Except when they finally got medical personnel to look at Mary, the baby was gone. John held Mary's hand as she delivered their still-born baby then they both looked at her for a moment before they took the baby's lifeless body away. The hospital required a name even though she never was.  
  
"Marie," Mary said. The attending nurse wrote it down quickly and left. They sat in silence. Parents of a deceased child.  
  
"I need to sleep," Mary finally said then laid back and closed her eyes.  
  
"Yeah, yeah you should. You've ..you've done a lot. I'm..." John wasn't sure what he wanted to add.  He's sorry?  He's tired too? It didn't matter. She didn't stir again in the two hours he stood watching her.  He exited her room and found Mycroft there.  
  
Mycroft explained that not only Richard and Edward but all four agents were killed. It was a planned strike.  
  
"But how could they know we would go to the hospital that day?"  
  
"I think you'll find the information here in the report. And I am sorry, John. Truly. I'm sure Sherlock would want me to send his condolences."  
  
John took the report and flipped through it. He stopped when the second sheet read "Baby Girl Watson Autopsy Report" He wasn't ready for that. Hell he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready for that. So he focused on the here and now.  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"He'll be in touch as soon as possible."  
  
"When is that going to be?"  
  
"John, I'm sure you'll want to be with Mary at this time of ne-"  
  
"Sod off, Mycroft. I know what you're doing. You're not manipulating me into not giving a shit about Sherlock. I have a right to know."  
  
"Far be it from me to remove any of your 'rights' but I can't answer your question right now."

"Just tell me wh-"

"Even if it weren't for the safety of the country, it would be for the safety of my brother that you are not privy to his location."  
  
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" John took a step forward. What was he trying to say?   
  
"You. What is it like for you? To be so dense?"  
  
John's fist is ready. He could so easily meet fist to skin but he doesn't. He breathes in and out. His chest heaves. He closes his eyes and reopens them. Ignores the impulse. According to Sherlock, Mycroft sees more than anyone. So what the hell is he seeing right now? John's eyes narrow at Mycroft and bites his lip in confusion.  
  
"Now you're thinking about the the real question," Mycroft says. "But let me ask you one first. If you knew where my brother was right now, what difference would it make? Would you leave your wife after you've both suffered this loss? Would you go to him? Would you put both of your lives in more danger?  Put Sherlock in another situation where he would find himself standing between a bullet and you?"  
  
"Fuck you!" John says and points his finger. He looks at Mycroft and doesn't see the man who would protect his brother. Only sees the pompous know-it-all. "I would help. I always have."  John knows it's been a while but it's still his default setting--help Sherlock.  
  
"Doubtful," Mycroft says and turns away from John. He begins strolling toward the elevator doors where Anthea is waiting with her finger on the lower level button. "But do read the information I've provided. When you want to know more, feel free to get in touch."

***

  
John went to the cafeteria and tried to eat something. He'd have to make arrangements soon. That alone would be taxing. Stirring the tapioca pudding, he looked down at the folder. He wasn't ready. He didn't want to look at it. But John knew it would never get easier. If Mycroft rushed the information in the report then it must be important somehow.  He could wager a guess. He didn't want to but once you've been lied to again and again then you start looking at all the possibilities. He wanted to trust Mary. He had tried. He flipped open and began reading.

_Mary Watson appears to have an inducement drug in her system. Origin unknown. This caused the premature birth. Additional DNA testing are as follows:_

_Mother: Watson, Mary  11158402_  
_Child: Watson, Marie 1558402_  
_Alleged Father: McCullen, David 1558403_

 _Combined Paternity Index = 36,590 to 1_  
_Probability of Paternity = 99.99%_

_Conclusion_

_Based on the genetic testing results, the probability of paternity is 99.99% when compared to an untested random man of the United Kingdom population._

_System Mother Child Alleged Father Paternity Index_

_D3S1358 15, 16 16 16 3.04_  
_VWA 18, 19 17, 19 16, 17 1.85_  
_FGA 23, 25 21, 23 21 5.65_  
_D8S1179 13, 14 13, 14 10, 14 0.76_ _  
_

 

The world didn't stop turning. He didn't break down and cry. He simply sat at the table. No one noticed anything. And John knew that was right. He looked around. He was in a hospital. A place of misery. Everyone had their own trials to go through. Their own pain to handle. Once again he had to try to deal with his alone.

 

***

  
He made the arrangements for the baby. There was no funeral. No ceremony. The baby was simply buried. He continued to  visit Mary.They didn't say much. She didn't ask. He didn't either. They ate meals together with the telly on in the background. Then he'd get up and peck her cheek and leave. He had stayed at Greg's for the first night but when it was time for him to take Mary home he wasn't sure what he'd do next. Luckily there was Anthea waiting for him. She explained they'd be taken to a safe house. Still in London but in a fairly hidden and extremely well-guarded location. Their home was actually a crime scene. That's where the other two agent bodies were found. She would ensure clean up was completed before they returned home. John nodded numbly.

He helped Mary complete her discharge paperwork in silence. Once they were both outside they were both driven to the secure location. Anthea must have seen the report because there were two bedrooms made up. Separate on the other side of the house from each other. John began to walk to his when Mary had stopped him.

  
"John," She said.  
  
"No," he said.  
  
She turned and silently walked away.  
  
Then Sherlock called. He couldn't explain to Sherlock why he would still mourn the child. The child wasn't his. It was David's. But he had claimed her as his own and he couldn't just turn that off.  Hell he'd painted the bedroom. He had thought about how one day he'd read her _Watership Down_ and ask which was her favorite bunny. And fuck, just fuck.  
  
Sherlock was going off now and leaving him behind again. John wanted to be there. Yes, because he didn't want to be stuck in a house with his lying, cheating wife. Yes, because he needed to do something to forget. But he also wanted to be there standing behind Sherlock.  Or maybe, If he's being honest with himself, he just _needs_ to be with Sherlock. If it wasn't obvious when he was dreaming about him after being away from him for just a month then  it's obvious to him now. And what does that mean? What does it mean that he needs him.  
  
A knock at the door pulls him away from questions he doesn't know how to begin to answer. Then another more insistent knock.   
  
"Come in," John says. He doesn't want to see her.  
  
"Hi, can we talk?" Mary gives a weak smile. She's wearing the pyjamas she did on the night he almost proposed to her. Anthea must have packed them. He gives a weak smile. It was lifetimes ago.  
  
"Sure, of course, yeah." He motions for her to have a seat on his bed. She slowly shakes her head 'no'. She doesn't belong there anymore. They both know it now.  
  
"I never meant to lie to you," Mary says.  
  
_Bullshit_. He wants to say. He nods his head just once instead.  
  
"I want to tell you everything."  
  
"There's really no need. Not anymore."  
  
"I know. I know but I do."  
  
_Why now?_ He wants to ask. He stays still waiting for her to speak.  
  
"I suppose Sherlock never told you there was nothing on the drive."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm sorry. I couldn't take that chance."  
  
He nods. He can't trust himself to say more. Why didn't Sherlock tell him?  
  
"The truth is I was supposed to watch you."  
  
"For who?"  
  
"I don'-"  
  
"You don't what? You don't think you should tell me? You lie to me. You cheat on me. You make me the father to a dead child that wasn't mine.And you don't think you should tell me?"  
  
"John please?"  
  
"Please?  Please what, Mary?"  
  
"Please just. I'm sorry. I didn't have it easy. I was recruited young. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time but..things changed. It was real between us. You have to know that."  
  
"What happened to your child?" He sees it visibly throw her off guard. Maybe she thought he'd forget. He doesn't know why he wants to know but he does.  
  
"I don't know. "  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
"I left her alright? I left her because I knew I couldn't take care of her. Jim helped me find a good home. She was placed with a family in Connecticut the last I heard."  
  
"Jim? Are you saying you--?"  
  
"I worked for Moriarty. You were an assignment at first but then you weren't."

He knew it. God he knew it. He turns away. He can't look at her. _God._  She shot Sherlock. Was that for her old pal Jim too? He continues looking away from her, stares a hole into the wall.  
  
"I have no reason to believe anything you're saying," he says.  
  
"I know you don't but it's the truth. The truth is yes, I worked for him for years. I helped train him, his sister. I was placed to ensure Sherlock was dead, but then we happened and it was good. Wasn't it good?"  
  
At this he turns around. Looks at her dead on. "You.....you manipulated me. Everything was a lie.  God,Mary. You lied about everything."  
  
"I didn't.  John listen. You liked me. You did. You wanted me. You _loved_ me, John. You did."  
  
"No. no that person. She wasn't you. That person would never do this. Be this. She would never try to kill my best friend."  
  
"Friend...right."  
  
"Don't."

Mary takes a step back. Shakes her head. Seems to decide against that fight. "Look. I'm sorry. I am. I told all this to Sherlock's brother. He said the information I had might help them find Jim."  
  
"Jim. Right. Fine."  
  
"He also said... he said."  
  
"Just say it."  
  
"That I could work for him."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He said If I found that I had no where to go then he could use someone with my skill set. John, do I? Do I have somewhere to go?"  
  
He wants to say _'To hell'_. Instead he just shakes his head no. He can't see a future with her. He can't forget or forgive this. And God he tried. He tried despite what happened with Sherlock. He tried to swallow down his objections. But now what is left for him with her? When will he ever look at her and not see a liar?  
  
"Okay. Okay." She says. She backs up. Wraps her arms around herself.  And he doesn't know why he does it but he goes to her. He holds her tight against him. She is crying softly. He feels the heave of her chest. She pulls back and looks at him, he looks at her. She kisses him. At first he doesn't know what to do. It's not right. It's just wrong. He doesn't feel that anymore for her but her lips are insistent and he finds himself kissing her back. Her hands travel down to his waist then backside. She squeezes. He thrusts forward. Then she's pushing him, guiding him towards the bed. His calf hits and then he falls back. She climbs on top of him and straddles him. Leans down to kiss him. And it's not good but it's something. She kisses his neck and he's always liked that. Her nipping at his neck then ear lobe. Then she moves her lips to his again. Her lips are soft. He remembers the first time they kissed. It was after their second date and he had walked her home. She had smiled then kissed him. He was still so broken then. Hadn't put even part of his life back together. He'd barely gotten a job at the clinic when she asked him out. He wanted to say no but it felt nice to be wanted so he said yes. The first date was rough. He spent 90% of it staring out the window and making awkward conversation but she had asked him out again and he was determined to make it better so he did something he never told anyone else.

He pretended that Sherlock was alive and that he would come to interrupt their date at any minute.  When the date ended after he walked her back to her car she kissed him soundly. She said they should have lunch the next day. She was light in the dark. She pushed when he needed it.

She was good.

She was honest.

She was a lie.  
  
He pushes her back gently. Just moves his hands to her shoulders to stay her. He turns his face away. She gets it immediately. She sits back then stands up. He follows. And they are staring at each other again with nothing to say.  
  
"Is it....him?" She asks.  
  
"I don't think you have a right to ask me that," John says. He knows what she's implying and it really isn't that. But he doesn't want to tell her anything anymore.  
  
"Okay," she says and walks toward the door. "I'll call Mycroft. I...," she starts to say and stops then opens the door to leave.  
  
"Mary?"  
  
"Yea John?" She stops and turns back to look at him. He looks her in the eye. He wants her to know this. Isn't sure why but he does.  
  
"No. It's not because of him. I loved you. I did. I just...."  
  
"I get it. Maybe one day we can be friends again."  
  
"Yeah...yea."  
  
She smiles. "You'll need one dealing with him."


	7. Chapter Seven

  
Greg Lestrade is out of his depth and he knows it. All his resources have run dry. _He's_ nearly run dry.  As he sits in a his well-worn chair and flips through the folder of photos, statements, and notes he begins to yawn. He wants a cigarette dammit.  He is no closer to finding out what happened to a little old lady at a care home and a lot of people can't quite understand why he even cares. He could pawn it off on someone else. Donovan has said to do so.   
  
"In the middle of everything else, Greg. Shouldn't we just...," She said and trailed off letting him fill in the blank with whatever version of 'give up' he wanted.  
  
"Not yet. We've got a few other things we can try. And he might be able to pitch an idea or two our way."  
  
"I assume he's dealing with the crisis that no one speaks of," she says.  
  
"He is," Lestrade confirms. "Doesn't mean he can't help out. He'll want to just to show off that he can best the smartest criminal in Britain and makes us all look like idiots at the same time."  
  
"What's happening with Watson?  No detail anymore?"  
  
"It's being handled outside of our hands. I'm not even sure where they've got him stashed to be honest."  
  
"Right. But you could find him if you needed. Couldn't you?"  
  
"I suppose. Why? You miss his pretty face on crime scenes or somethin'?"  
  
"No, just maybe. You know. Boys night out and...darts and....talking about things that you men talk about."  
  
"Are you trying to handle me, Sally?"  
  
"'Course not sir. 'Course not. But also Philip is around if you need. Or I could take you to ya know...burp and talk."  
  
"I've not gone round the bend or anything. Listen. I've been wrong many times but I've also been right plenty of times too. Times when you thought I was wrong and I wasn't. There's something here."  
  
"Course boss."  
  
"If there isn't then," Greg stops and looks down at the paperwork and gives a grunt of frustration, "I'll give a shout. Okay?"  
  
"Sounds good," Donovan says and strolls out of his office.  
  
After she left, Greg turned back to his monitor and pressed play on the video again. There was something there. Something important.  
  
  
********  
  
Janine got off the subway and screwed up her nose. The stench of Chinatown in New York City wasn't something she felt like smelling today but the note said to go here. She couldn't ignore a note like that. Not if it meant that she'd hold onto a few friends who were willing to help keep away Aedan.  
  
No matter. She did what she had to do. It was as simple as that. Aedan was who he was and that meant she bent and broke all her morals until they allowed her to see the one thing she needed to do--survive. All those months with Charles Augustus Magnussen also proved that survival in the harshest of circumstances was possible for her.  
  
She walked past small shops selling everything from live duck to live rabbit to pig anus calamari. It wasn't quite the metropolitan New York life she hoped but at least she was free. At least for the moment. ' _We'll see where we are after this meeting,'_ She thought and patted her bag nervously.    
  
*********

  
Sherlock sits in a hotel in Moscow.  Mere days after nearly being captured by Moriarty he's sat in a hotel once again playing bait. Though Moriarty couldn't possibly be fool enough to bite. Mycroft thinks he will though.  Mycroft thinks that buying out the entire hotel and placing an agent in nearly every room will yield them results.  His brother can be appallingly stupid at times.  
  
Since Moriarty isn't taking the bait then Sherlock goes over the lists of items that Moriarty has used to re-open their chess match. The facts:  
  
Mary was induced into labor and the agents protecting both her and John were killed. John and Mary were not hurt.  
The car was bullet proof  but if he wanted to hurt them then an old fashioned bomb would have done the trick or at least made it easier to extricate them from the car. So Moriarty did not want to hurt John and Mary for some reason. He did want them scared and out of the way. He wanted to make a splash. Dead undercover agents. Shooting up a hospital. He wanted people to notice.  
  
"He wanted ME to notice," Sherlock says aloud to no one. Not even Billy or an imaginary John Watson is listening. He isn't indulging in either of those things these days. He can't. He just can't. He opens up the folder of information Mycroft gave him and begins reviewing the note. There is information here and not just the riddles of madman.  
  
As he reads over the note he admits to himself that it makes no more sense to him now than it did when he first read it.  
  
"S,  
When J is taken away then J cannot say.  
The wrongdoing of M can never stop hiM.  
The game is simple. The solution is too.  
Two and Second and Give me the One.  
And hell let's make it fun. One D for my M.  
-J"  
  
He is reminded how much he abhors riddles. And after numerous readings he believes that he may have it entirely wrong. Hell maybe "S" doesn't even equate to "Sherlock."  
  
The first "J" must be Janine and the second must be  Jim.  
  
Or perhaps there is another "J" to which he refers. Sherlock runs through any and all known associates that have a "J" in their name. He comes up with three known associates; all of which are dead. The wrongdoing of "M" can never stop hiM? "M"? Well there is Moriarty ,of course, but is he saying that regardless of his crimes he'll never be stopped?  
  
Sherlock sighs in exhaustion. If he's sending out declarations of "You'll never catch me" then the man is even crazier now than when he shot himself. Sherlock's mind flashes back to that moment on the roof. He cannot find a possible way Moriarty would have survived. Then Janine said he was never in any danger. _The bullets weren't real perhaps? It makes no sense._  
  
He looks down at the note but he absolutely cannot read how the game is simple once more without wanting to throw things. All the things. This is why he isn't exactly annoyed when there is a knock at his door.  
  
"Come in."  
  
"I trust you find your accommodations to your suiting, Mr. Sherrimond?" A tall bespoke suited man affecting  a above average but not quite authentic Russian accent smiles at Sherlock from the door.  
  
Sherlock eyes him for less than a few seconds, debates playing a game with the man. He could feign belief in this act, but since there is no one around to appreciate it he'll simply ask.  
  
"Why has Mycroft sent you?"  
  
The man doesn't waste time and answers immediately without the accent, giving way to the British that is obvious his country of origin. "Because he felt you needed help."  
  
"I suppose you can make me tea if you like but that is most likely the extent of the help you can provide. Two sugars. Good day."  
  
Sherlock walks away from the door and back to the desk and picks up the note.  Ignoring the man, he begins to read it again. The man is tall like Sherlock and slender. Perhaps Mycroft chose him as a decoy. Sherlock turns back to him and takes in his bone structure, and unruly hair. Definitely chose him as a decoy.  
  
"I'm not your decoy," the man says and he loosens the tie he was wearing while pretending to be the hotel attendant. He then takes it off completely and tosses it into the trash.  
  
Sherlock is not impressed. He was looking the man over. Obvious deduction that Sherlock would assume he was a decoy. Add to the fact that he is, even if he isn't aware of it, a decoy. Anyone stupid enough to not see that cannot help Sherlock. The man waltzes over to the table where Sherlock is working and takes he note from his hand.  
  
"Ahh so it's true. You are actually working to stop Moriarty."  
  
"I..."  
  
"Again, " he says.  
  
"Yes." Sherlock says and looks the man over. He tries to place his exact birthplace in England. Based on his accent then somewhere near Lestrade's area. Though he can't quite remember that location now.  Their vocal cadence is similar but this man has been educated and trained. It doesn't matter Sherlock decides.  
  
"The word was that you took him down in a daring two-year deep cover operation. But you're back at it again."  
  
Sherlock says nothing.  
  
"Must not have done a very thorough job then."  
  
"I'm...what?" Sherlock looks at him perplexed, annoyed.  
  
The man smiles wide. Looks as if he is about to break out into mischievous giggles. And then he does just that.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says while laughing. "It's just that this is amazing. You're amazing. You have gone up against the smartest criminal and somehow things got missed. Bad intel I'd wager. That'll always get you in the end. But you're back at it again. A one man show meant to keep the whole of Britain safe. I- I'm just in awe of you." He finishes with a smile and he walks to Sherlock and places a hand on his shoulder "Please let me help. I want to learn from you. Mycroft sent me here because as he felt I could help. He said I wasn't incapable.'"  
  
"High praise from Mycroft."  
  
"I know. I wrote about it in my diary that night."  
  
"I don't know if..."  
  
"If you hate me after a day then I'll leave. But I'm here. You might as well use me to go get you food. And if you should find my cryptography, firearms handling, and ya know all around espionage skills come in handy then I'll stick around. What do you say?"  
  
Sherlock wants to say no but at least it'll be a sounding board. So he simply nods.  
  
"I told the real attendant that I was your boyfriend here to surprise you so just FYI in case he asks."  
  
"Why would he ask?" Sherlock says.  
  
"Might do when they bring up the free champagne and caviar. I told him I was proposing and he offered. Hates Putin apparently. And a man who wants to piss off his country's president by giving me free food is a man after my heart.  I wasn't turning that down."  
  
Then the man puts the note on the wall and then pins it there. He then looks at the other papers on the desk and begins pinning the rest in neat order. He takes every piece of paper strewn about the desk and floor and creates a wall. Sherlock hadn't brought pins to do that himself but the man pulls some from his pocket and goes to work. Sherlock gives it a glance as each of the papers go up. They do look better on a wall.  
  
He looks and finally sees. Distraction. Deadly distraction.  
  
"The house where I was held," he says.  
  
"What?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't respond but goes to look at a photo of the location where he spent a night preparing to meet Moriarty. A night that ended with Janine helping him and Jim not showing. But it didn't make sense then or now. Jim was coming there for a reason. It couldn't have been just to collect him. If he never showed up then whatever brought Jim to Russia might still be at the house.  
  
"Never mind that, John" Sherlock says to the man and Sherlock puts on his coat and heads for the door.  
  
"Not John," the man says firmly.  
  
"Right. Let's go," Sherlock says.  
  
"Aren't you going to ask my name?"  
  
"I don't see how it has any bearing on what we'll be doing but fine...name?"  
  
"Victor Trevor."  
  
"Fine. Victor."  
  
"Am I your first?"  
  
"First?"  
  
"Assistant."  
  
Sherlock thinks for a minute. John was and is far more than an assistant.  
  
"Yes, you are my first."  
  
"I like the sound of that. Being your first." Victor smiles. "Let's go." He says and opens the door for them both.

Sherlock eyes him for a second while trying to figure out what Mycroft's play is here.

  
"Oh. Remember to play it cool for the manager. Just a quick grope to show him you said yes."  
  
Victor winks at Sherlock who blinks twice then shakes his head and follows Victor out. Once outside Victor leaves and Sherlock waits for the car to be brought around.  A few moments (or perhaps many, Sherlock doesn't know) later Victor pulls up  on the back of a Honda motorbike wearing jeans, a dark black t-shirt, motorcycle boots and dark leather jacket.  
  
Sherlock doesn't question the mode of transport or the clothes. He simply takes note. "Do you know where we're heading?"  
  
"No," Victor says. "But that's okay. You're driving." He tosses Sherlock a helmet and gets off the bike. Sherlock pockets his phone and places the helmet on his head. He slides into position and then feels Victor slide in behind him and hold on.  
  
Sherlock revs the bike and takes off at nearly the bike's highest speed. Victor leans close and Sherlock can't help but imagine what it would be like if this were a different situation. How this would be something he'd do with someone he cared. He could take John on a bike trip around London. Wasted thoughts, he thinks. So he focuses on what he could find at the house and drives on.  
  
The drive ends only a few moments later with Sherlock parking the bike outside the home and Victor sliding off the bike. Victor puts the helmet back on the motorbike and heads toward the house. Sherlock can't help but enjoy how he reminds him of John. Ready to go forward into danger.  
  
The house is boarded up but that doesn't stop Sherlock and it doesn't seem to deter Victor either. As Sherlock is trying to find something to pull off the boards, Victor aims a swift kick of his leg and breaks them enough so they can enter in the front door.

As they enter they are immediately hit with an unmistakable smell of decaying flesh. Victor pulls his sidearm out then hands a second, smaller gun to Sherlock with a wink.  
  
"Always be prepared," he whispers.  
  
"Head towards the study," Sherlock responds.  
  
Victor nods an affirmative and heads near what appears to be the study.  He lightly steps until he hits a creak on the floorboards. Sherlock continues to follow in his tread until they're in the study. A body that should not be this well preserved is sitting at the desk. Staring back at them with rotting maggots is the lifeless body of Jim Moriarty.

It had been three years since Sherlock watched him die on the roof so whoever had his body took the time to preserve it well.  
  
"Sherlock? Is that?"  
  
"Quiet," Sherlock says and he moves closer to inspect it then stands up quickly and moves away.  
  
"No. This is distraction."  
  
"A damn good one I'd say," Victor says but Sherlock has swept out of the room ignoring anything he offered.  
  
"So what is it distracting us from?" Victor asks  
  
"Good question."  
  
"Told you I could be useful," Victor says. He places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder then moves it down to squeeze his arm.  
  
"I don't do," Sherlock says then sprints up the stairs.  
  
He goes through drawer after drawer in each room. Nothing in any of them. Finally he reaches the master bedroom and once again each drawer is empty. And then he sees it. The portrait above the bed. It is hard to make out but the young girl in the painted portrait is Janine. Sherlock doesn't recognize the boy but the woman is familiar. He pulls out his phone and opens up his messages. Damn. None of them transferred to the new phone from Mycroft. He sends off a message to Lestrade and waits for the response which comes quickly.  
  
_**Oh finally got bored then-Lestrade**_  
  
_**Can you send it?-SH**_

Victor comes up the stairs and finds him thrumming with excitement  
  
"What do we do?"  
  
"Just a moment."

Victor remains silent and sits on the bed next to Sherlock.  
  
A few seconds later the screen beeps and he presses play. He is sure. The woman from the video is the woman in the painting in front of him. She is connected to Moriarty.


	8. Chapter Eight

Janine walks about eight blocks from the Subway before finally spying the building with faded numbers barely visible atop the entrance.  A quick step up a few stairs and she pulls the incredibly heavy door open. She sees an elevator, a few dying plants, and an elderly Asian man sitting among electronics from about three decades ago. He greets her with a toothless smile from behind a corner counter that appears to be no larger than a ticket booth.

  
"Hi, do you know where I can find SMS Holdings?" She asks while trying to ignore her common sense that is  screaming _run_.  
  
The man doesn't respond but points a gnarled finger to the wall behind her. In a new placard, a listing of  the building's tenants shows floors 1-8 are held by JAM Inc. And on the 9th is SMS Holdings. Janine is too smart to believe in coincidences.  She looks around then heads back towards the entrance. Quickly and loudly three electronic door bolts fly into place. She knows no old building would have those kinds of locks. Someone specially fitted it with them. Someone chose this building for its aging look but then turned it into a modern day trap. Damn.  
  
She takes out her phone. No signal. _God's sake_. A cell dampener most likely. Whoever this is isn't playing by the rules. She reaches into her bag and draws out a small 9mm then takes a quick breath.  
  
She looks over at the attendant. He immediately drops down behind the counter. There's nothing left to do but to head on up and see who is pretending to be her brother. Or to meet the brother who would surely kill her if she gave him the chance.  
  
  
****  
  
It doesn't take long for Sherlock to get in touch with Mycroft and charter  a plane home. He and  Victor sat in  silence on the private jet. A few hours into the trip and the stewardess brought Sherlock a meal to ignore. Victor tucked into his and murmured a few _mmm's_ which barely permeated Sherlock's thoughts. But they did get in there somehow.  
  
He thought back on the portrait curiously. When was it completed? Did it contain a young Jim Moriarty? From what he could tell the bone structure could be Jim. But was it? It looked dissimilar from the man he knew. Different from the body they found. The only reason he didn't expend more time on the body was that it was entirely too neat.  
  
Did they think he'd see the body and give up the search? And when did the body get there? Surely after Mycroft extracted him days earlier. But wasn't the house under surveillance? Obviously not or else he and Victor could not have entered the home without incident. _Well._  
  
Sherlock picks up his phone and flips through the photos he took.  
  
First the body. There was the body of Jim Moriarty or a body whose physical features looked as if they once resembled the man that Sherlock faced off against years earlier.  While waiting on Mycroft's people to arrive, he looked closer at the body. Smell wise it seemed no different than most decaying bodies smell. Based on olfactory alone he'd say the body was no older than a month so if it is the same man then a powerful preservative must have been used. The clothes , save the coat, even matched those he wore that fateful day. And the bullet wound was in the same location. It appeared to be the body. And yet....  
  
  
Second was the painting. Only Janine and the elderly woman was recognizable. The younger male showed a slight resemblance to Jim Moriarty but looked nothing like the man Sherlock knew. The bone structure could be accurate but was it really Moriarty in the portrait? The accuracy of a painting aside, one can never quite tell how someone may age. There are a variety of program simulations that may get close but so many factors may change the final product. Based on educated guess Sherlock would say Jim and the boy in the portrait were at least related. Sherlock had checked the back of the painting but found no other markers. Nothing that indicated it was anything but what it seemed--A family portrait.  
  
Was it really Moriarty lying dead and decaying in the chair? With the resources so easily tampered with, he isn't quite sure how to go about confirming the body's true identity. If it's plastic surgery then there should be serial markers but it's unlikely Moriarty would go to someone beholden to medical policy. However the changes in bone structure should still show. He shoots off a text to Mycroft to ensure the body is sent to Bart's and then sends a text to Molly to advise her to await viewing the body until he's arrived. For many reasons, he thinks but doesn't type a reply to her question.  
  
He slides his phone back in his coat pocket and shuts his eyes in thought. As he closes them he notices Victor looking at him. There is nothing hidden on his face. If Sherlock was someone else, he'd blush.

  
After Sherlock realized the woman was related to Moriarty, Victor, who was already sat close to Sherlock on the bed, moved closer.  He turned to Sherlock and told him he was brilliant. It felt...odd. It was praise that he hadn't received from John in ages. Years? Had it been years since John told him that he was amazing? He called him clever that one time.  
  
Sherlock wasn't sure what to say so he decided to stand and take his leave but found Victor's hand on his wrist. He looked down and stared with a furrowed brow.Victor's curled fingers were gentle but firm, holding him with an added caress of his thumb across Sherlock's wrist. Victor then stood up and peered into Sherlock's eyes. Before this, Sherlock had categorized a base description of Victor but he had to amend the eye colour. They were a brilliant shade of green. And when dilated they shone bright.  
  
"It's not just me, is it?" Victor said and placed his other hand behind Sherlock's head and tilted it as he leaned forward and their lips met. Victor caressed his lips until Sherlock opened his mouth and then his tongue was in Sherlock's mouth. As if on auto-pilot Sherlock kissed back. Remembering the days when he had to play the part with Janine. Victor's hands move to Sherlock's backside and caressed. He moved his hands to Sherlock's waist and pushed their bodies closer. The kiss went on for 18 seconds then Victor pulled back and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes had remained closed.  
  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"I..yes?" Sherlock says.  
  
"I want you."  
  
Sherlock hears the words. He knows the words. He knows the phrase. He's imagined the phrase said to him but not by this man. This man who just met him. This man who kicked in a door and called him brilliant and with a grin handed him a gun. This man who isn't John. But John will never say these words to Sherlock. John is not gay. John married Mary. John has never held Sherlock close like this.  
  
"You do," Sherlock says and plays for time. It's true though. He feels Victor's erection pressing insistent at Sherlock's groin. There is no answering erection from Sherlock.  
  
"I knew you could tell from the moment I looked at you. Hell before I looked at you. You're gorgeous, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock's closes his eyes again and he breathes hard. This is odd because he doesn't ever indulge in this. He drops his forehead to lay against Victor's and he smiles.  This isn't new. Many people find him attractive. But it does sound a tad more nice coming from Victor. Why/. A voice of reason pipes up on cue. A voice that sounds a lot like John's says _'Because he reminds you of me. Of how when we met we immediately went into the fray together. Of how we began. Of how it was before'._  
  
"Sherlock?"  Victor calls his name. He is holding Sherlock close, unflinching, unmoving.  Sherlock opens his eyes to see a man with lust and admiration in his eyes. He does not need to take his pulse. He also does not need to have him plied with liquor before he'll finally be okay with touching him.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says and takes a step back.  
  
"Oh uh," Victor says. Sherlock can hear the disappointment in his voice. He steps back from Sherlock and looks away for a bit. "It's fine. I just thought but...it's fine. In fact I apologize. That was inappropriate of me."  
  
"We should go.  I'll contact Mycroft. We're going back to London."  
  
"We?"  
  
"I assume you're assigned to me until you're no longer needed."  
  
"Until I'm no longer wanted," Victor says pointedly.  
  
"Okay," Sherlock says with a nod.  
  
A quick call to brother dear and a few hours later they sit on a plane heading towards merry old England

***  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks over at Victor who smiles at him, winks, and leans back in his seat.  
  
Sherlock has no time for this so he closes his eyes and focuses.  There is more information to be found with regards to Lestrade's case. If he's lucky then this is the information he needs to put an end to this. He sends off a text to Lestrade to have all the files sent to his place at 221 B. He knows it's not smart but Sherlock is going home.  
  
  
*****  
  
John sits and is alone.  There is no Mary. There is no Sherlock. There is simply him and the tenish (last he counted) guards. Someone delivers food. The guards change. They say nothing to him and he in turn says nothing to them. What is there to say?  
  
He found a few things when he arrived. There is his sig. There is a fuckin security alert button. There is the vast waste.  
  
He is exhausted. The first few days of being on lock down with no information from anyone and he thinks perhaps that he should write a blog then realizes there is nothing he could possibly say about anything that has happened recently.  
  
Each day he wakes and feels alone and restless. It's not unlike when he lost Sherlock and he didn't know what to do with himself.  
  
The house has a five bedrooms, two baths,  an office, library, a full kitchen. He spends most of his time his time in his room sitting in a comfy old chair that feels not unlike his old chair back at 221B. He picks up a book of short stories and tries to read them but spends most of his time thinking about Sherlock and Mary and the lies. On the fourth day he pours himself a conservative two fingers of scotch then adds more once he decides to be honest with himself. A few moments later he thinks to call the one person he could discuss this all with.  
  
Lestrade picks up on the third ring.  
  
"John, mate, how are you?"  
  
"Good. Good. Yeah. Good."  
  
"Right," Lestrade says.  
  
John knows that Lestrade can hear the lie in his voice as easily as he can hear the disbelief in Greg's.  
  
"You up for a few lagers?" Greg asks.  
  
John knows this is why he called Greg but the fact that Greg immediately knows this means John sounds worse than he thought.  
  
"Sounds good. yeah."  
  
"Okay.  Good. Only it'll have to wait until tomorrow as I'm busy with that case for Sherlock."  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Yeah....Oh." Lestrade catches himself far too late. "I just figured you weren't helping because of safety and you know. I would've called you in as well. "  
  
"No, it's fine. It's fine.  Look I should go." He doesn't mean to sound like a jilted...whatever but he knows his words and tone aren't doing him any favors.  
  
"No, come on. John. Let's meet for that drink. Donovan's been  asking for more responsibility. I'll leave her to it and come out tonight. What about you? Will they let you out from wherever Sherlock's got you stashed?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll be there."  
  
John devises a plan on how he can sneak out despite there being a guard at every entrance and window and then remembers he's not under arrest and goes up to one and says, "I need to go to a pub tonight or I'll go crazy, mate. So what are we going to do?"  
  
Ten minutes later a car pulls up. It's almost a replica of the one he and Mary were in when...no. He can't think about that right now.  
  
The drive is not quick which tells John that he's being held in a place outside of London. At first he pays attention to the scenery so he can trace his way back then he gets lost in it. He thinks about everything and nothing and that in itself is a kind of relief. To allow the flood of thoughts come but not zone in on one heartache is freeing.  
  
He gets to the pub where he and Greg have met for many a drink. He goes to the bar and and orders a stout lager and takes a sip. He looks around. Many people are drinking, some flirting aided by the alcohol. There is a match of some sort playing on the telly. It feels fuckin good to be out.  
  
He sips his  drink until he realizes he's ready for another and as he's ordering Greg puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "Make that two."  
  
Greg slides onto a stool and sits. John tries to not show he's disappointed that Sherlock isn't with him. He hadn't really thought but figured maybe it was a slight possibility. John isn't quite sure how to begin so he simply sips his beer. They've done this before. Been in a situation where they didn't quite know how to bring something up. Usually preferring to look up at the TV and comment instead of broaching a real topic.  John is okay with that mostly. He finally spies the players on the tele.  Liverpool is in a match with Wigan. He comments on their playing easily.  Asks Greg if they'll ever have as good as they had it with Rafa. Greg shrugs and says no one ever appreciates the managers they have until a few shit ones give the team a bad run.  
  
"True," John says. This conversation about nothing and football takes John through to his third and fourth. He can handle his beer. It doesn't phase him much. So when Greg suggests they switch to scotch he ignores the old rule and goes for it. And then he has another. And another until he's okay to talk, until he feels fine. It's all fine. Every utterly mad thing that's been dealt his way is fine. He says that to Greg.  
  
"Really. I mean. Right I married a shall we say unsavory person who cheated on me after she shot my best..best ya know him. It's fine. Wait a minute. You might've not known that." John says and catches himself far too late.  
  
"I did. And I'm sorry. I know it's not fine but you'll pull through this 'n all."  
  
"Yea. So you said you two had a case. How's that going?"  
  
"Good yeah. Well better since I've gotten his help on it. Was about to give up but something didn't set right. His royal highness shows up and points out in less than a minute that there is a shadow in the back of an evidence video and the video was on a well-made loop. Doctored with. All the technicians missed it. Hell I'd stared at that bloody thing for hours without figuring out what was wrong. But that's him isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," John says and gives a half smile. "Yeah it is."  
  
"How is he..," John says and then adds quickly, "helping with the case? Chasing down leads for you?"  
  
John knows Greg must see the desperation on his face. Because Greg starts to tell him  a story from his past dealings with Sherlock. John always loves those and Greg knows. Greg starts by mentioning that Sherlock showed up and insulted everyone on the scene in record time then solved the case in two minutes. Then he found another case on  the same scene.  
  
"It was mental," Greg exclaims. "He found fourteen sets of prints and demanded we run every damn set. He was sure among them was a second murderer for a second crime."  
  
"How did he know that?" John asks with a smile on his face. A real smile that touches his eyes. The first one in a while.  
  
"Hell if I know. Something about the blood splatter on the wall included just one droplet out of place. And the bastard was right. We wouldn't have caught it if it weren't for him. Twin sisters both killed in the same spot but by two different men. Brothers. Well one brother was married to one sister so he would get a healthy payout from the insurance. The formerly estranged brother was secretly dating the twin sister. Then one brother double-crossed the other. And in the end both of the bastards were sent up. They'll never see the light of day. Thanks to Sherlock."  
  
"Amazing."  
  
"That he is. That he is," Greg says picking up immediately on what John wanted to say.  Then he adds, "The guy he has helping now. I'm pretty sure Sherlock isn't going to keep him around."  
  
"Oh?" John says. It's all he can make himself say for many reasons.  
  
"Yeah. Victor. Tall bloke like Sherlock. Actually looks a bit like him really. Anyways he's been with Sherlock on each of the scenes. The care home and the London apartment. He's uh staying with him I think." Greg says the last sentence quickly. As if he was trying to rip off a band-aid to make it hurt less. It doesn't hurt less. Though he knows it's ridiculous. He's probably just protection. Mycroft most likely insisted.  
  
"Well glad my replacement is helping out. He needs someone," John says and he downs his drink.  Nods to the bartender that he'll take another. "At the very least to make the mad bastard remember to eat a bit."  
  
"Nah. I think it's someone his brother wants around. A bodyguard who helps a bit is all."  
  
John tries not to think how that was his job. No, not his job. His place. The look of dismay has to show on his face because then Greg's face softens in response.  
  
"You know he'd never replace ya anyway."  
  
"You say that and yet I find myself sat away in a house going crazy by the day while he's out with this... Victor."  
  
"It's not like that for him. You know he's not one to trust anyone."  
  
"He trusted Mary." John spits out. And God he must have drank too much. He knows better. He does.  
  
"Not fair mate. He did that for you."  
  
"God. Right. You're right."  
  
"Look  , John, It's not my place to say but have you considered how much the man needs you? I wouldn't go worrying about being replaced any time soon."  
  
"He doesn't need me." John says quietly. Finally giving voice to the thought he's been thinking since Sherlock turned up after playing dead for two years. If John was truly needed then it never would've happened. Things would be completely different.  
  
"Come on, John. You know...you've got to know."  
  
"Know what?" John asks. Because he doesn't know. He knows that Sherlock left for two years and in a way he's gone again.  
  
"When Sherlock...died you moved on," Lestrade says then takes a sip of his drink.  
  
"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"  
  
"No, I mean. Look he left. He was gone. You moved on and it didn't quite work out.. Alright. But you did at least try. You found someone else and got a job and built a life. Imagine if he had seen you die that day. You think we would be celebrating his wedding a few years after? Or do you think he would be at your grave every damn day? Or ,hell, wishing he was gone too. I just--I don't want to imagine it."  
  
"Hell if it means I'm dead then neither do I."  John jokes. He has to joke because he'd never thought about it like that.  When he thinks about it he usually thinks how Sherlock was on an adventure for two years. He doesn't think about the fact that Sherlock missed him or what it would have been like if the roles were reversed. Of course they could never be reversed. He'd never leave Sherlock.  The last thought hits him like a bullet. He knows it's absolutely true.  
  
"Final one?" Greg asks and John nods.

 

***

  
After three more Greg calls himself a cab and John walks outside to see the car from earlier and three guards waiting for him. One opens the door for John. A few giggling women come by and give him a smile when they see him slide into the car. He considers going back to ask one of them to join him but he knows he can't. Still it would be nice to be with someone tonight. Take his mind off never leaving and always being left.  
  
Once he's back in the safe house he walks upstairs to his room, locks the door, and throws himself on the bed.  
  
He decidedly ignores the pang of  wishing he knew what Sherlock was up to. Ignores the fact that other people know what is going on with him and most definitely ignores the nagging thought that he's been replaced.  
  
He ignores it and undresses.  
  
He ignores it and takes paracetamol with a full glass of water.  
  
He ignores it and  tries to remember the last time he was this drunk.  
  
Stag night? No. That's not right.  
  
Then the memory surfaces.  It was a few months back and he'd decided that he was allowed. He had a lying wife and a shit situation handed to him. Regardless of what Sherlock said about him subconsciously choosing this. He deserved to have a drink. He drank until he felt good. He sat in his chair and looked at Sherlock who had once again checked himself out of the hospital.  
  
Sherlock had looked at him, almost waiting it seemed. Then he stood to leave. John wasn't sure if was the alcohol or the fact that he hadn't been touched in ages but when Sherlock  brushed past him he reached out his hand and held on to Sherlock's forearm.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
But he held on and Sherlock didn't move. Later that night in bed John imagined ... well it didn't matter.  
  
He thinks about how he knows he needs to move on again. He needs to get a job. Eventually he might even start dating again. God who knows if he'll be able to find someone. Does he even want someone? Remember to get a background check, he thinks jokingly to himself. But he knows he will do just that.  
  
He isn't quite sure why (because he's not going to get a response) he texts Sherlock. Greg had said he was in London. Staying at their flat, his flat.  
  
**_Are you with him?-JW_**  
  
**_Who?-SH_**  
  
**_ Victor.-SH_**  
  
**_You've seen Lestrade-SH_**  
  
**_Good friend. He told me about my replacement. -JW_**  
 ** _Just curious how good he is.-JW_**  
 ** _Cleans up the body parts and gets the groceries? Maybe even gets you tea?-JW_**  
  
**_I make my own tea-SH_**  
 ** _I'm quite good at it-SH_**  
 ** _And, yes, he's very good at his job.-SH_**  
 ** _Which is to assist me-SH_**  
  
**_I see.-JW_**  
  
 ** _Not replaceable-SH_**  
  
**_And yet he's there and I'm not -JW_**  
  
John doesn't want to think about it anymore. He's tired of thinking about it all right now. He's tired and drunk and he just wants to forget. It's pathetic really it is but he just decides to ignore Sherlock. So he tosses the phone on the bed and then turns off all the lights and climbs in bed.   
  
Whether it's the alcohol (it's definitely the alcohol) or the fact that it's been ages he decides he just needs to come.  He searches for porn on his phone.  He flips through a couple of videos. Until he clicks on one. It starts modestly and poorly acted with a friend dropping by. In an instant she's on her knees mouthing at his crotch , unzipping his pants , and giving a clumsy handjob. So John does the same. He places his hand on his cock and grips loosely.. Soon she's licking at the glans and swallowing the man down almost entirely.The man eases his hands into her brunette hair and holds tight. John tries to imagine her lips on his cock, tries to imagine her tongue running up and down his shaft. And he hates himself a little bit for doing this. But he throws that shameful thought away and  strokes himself once, twice. Hears the moans. Tries to pretend he's the one making someone moan. It's bullshit because he knows that she really isn't real and this isn't real and fuck.  
  
_**We've discussed this-SH**_  
  
The text floats at the top of the video momentarily for a second before clearing from the screen.  
  
He ignores the text. He has nothing to say. He lets the video play on. He grips tighter. thrusts upward. Tries to just enjoy the feel of it and ignore the need for someone else to be there. Someone on top riding him.  
  
**_I know things must be difficult for you now. I'm sorry.- SH_**  
 ** _If I could be there I would be.- SH_**  
  
And then John imagines just that. That it is Sherlock there and _fuck_. It shouldn't be that hot. He's not. Fuck does it matter? Maybe he is. Maybe he isn't. But this is different. And fuck it he'll worry about it tomorrow because right now the idea of plowing Sherlock's ass sounds amazing for so many reasons. So that's what he imagines. He's heard Sherlock yell "John" enough times to tailor that memory and imagine what Sherlock would sound if it was just a bit different and if it wasn't just a shout but Sherlock moaning John's name.  
  
John's strokes speed up and he doesn't know what Sherlock would want but he wants to think that Sherlock would ride him. That he'd grind down on John's cock. He'd be so fuckin tight but Sherlock would squeeze John so hard, make it even tighter. He'd lean down and drop his voice to the lowest octave and say...  
  
John's phone rings and he wants to ignore it, tries to ignore it. But then he looks over, sees Sherlock's name and immediately presses to answer.  
  
"Hello?" He says and he knows he sounds out of breath. Wonders if Sherlock can tell what he's been up to from that nanosecond of conversation.  
  
"John..," Sherlock says but nothing else.  
  
He tries to calm his breath, tries to steady it so he can carry on a conversation but he's drunk and is compelled to say so.  
  
"I'm a little bit drunk."  
  
"I assumed. Do you-- Should I... let you get back to-- Should I let you go?"  
  
"No!" The shout is immediate. "No," he repeats more quiet.  
  
"So I'm not interrupting," Sherlock asks.  
  
"You're..No, you're not."  
  
"Do you want to get back to it then?"  
  
"With you on the phone?"  
  
"Is it...something you don't want me around for?"  
  
"No it's...Yeah.  It's fine. It's fine."  
  
He takes his cock in his hand and begins the stroke. And fuck it feels good though nothing has changed. Except Sherlock is on the other end of the phone and though they're not saying he knows what is going on.  It doesn't take long before he's biting his lip while holding back a moan. He doesn't want to moan. It'll make it too real and he might be a little bit tipsy but he knows this is madness. You don't rub one out with a mate on the phone. Especially this mate. And then he imagines what it would be like for Sherlock to be there again. For one day when it's all said and done where he's sat in his chair. Sherlock comes in, takes off his coat. John imagines staring up at that neck, seeing those lips licked. Sherlock would look at John the drop to his knees. Sherlock would tease him. Of course he would. And though he's been tying to hold it back, a moan escapes and it comes out in the form of Sherlock's name on his lips.  
  
"Sherlock...."  
  
John stills. His eyes fly open. He doesn't move his hand on his cock. He doesn't say anything. Then he realizes on the other end of the phone Sherlock is doing the same thing. The confirmed proof comes scant seconds later when Sherlock simply says, "John." It's breathy and needy and it shoots straight to John's cock.  
  
So John tightens his stroke, speeds it up. He feels it coming and he doesn't hide it.  
  
"Fuck Sherlock"  
  
His ball tighten, a flurry of images almost assault him.  Sherlock  is on his knees sucking John off. John plowing Sherlock's ass. Sherlock taking both of their cocks in his hand and stroking. _Fuckin hell, Sherlock._   John hears Sherlock breathe out his name just once and God Sherlock is thinking about this too because John hears him moan unashamedly, "John, please."  
  
Then John comes. He comes so hard and there is no doubt about what they just did. He hears a "God" and he knows Sherlock tumbled over too.   
  
"Sherlock, I..." he starts to say then realizes he has absolute no idea what to say to someone he just shared the weirdest bit of phone sex to ever exist in the history of the telephone. Then he remembers. _Oh God._   "Oh, God, is Mycroft going to hear that?"  
  
Sherlock laughs. And John laughs because most people probably don't have to worry about their partner's brother over-hearing their odd phone sex. His life is not a normal life. But that's okay. Because he chooses this life. He does. He chooses Sherlock. And in this moment it feels like Sherlock chooses him too. Sherlock's laughs more but then finally comes to himself.  
  
"It'll serve him right for being so nosy."  
  
"I think you mean a nosy know-it-all," John says.  
  
"I should..." Sherlock begins to say.  
  
"Go. yeah."  
  
"You're not going to stop me?"  
  
"You don't seem like the type to cuddle after."  
  
"That's an unfair assumption."  
  
"Is it wrong?"  
  
"I wouldn't know really."  
  
John says nothing. The scotch and lager is creeping up on him. The added feeling of being sexually sated is making him sleepy. He yawns.  
  
"John, I feel I should say something here."  
  
"Alright" John says while closing his eyes. And God sleeping sounds like heaven right now but he also just wants to stay. He wants Sherlock to stay.

  
"John, I,"

 

***

  
What did they just do? Sherlock thinks. What should he say? He feels as if he should say something akin to 'John, that was very nice. Thank you for the phone sex.' But that is obviously wrong. Was it even phone sex? Doesn't phone sex involve describing what you'd like to do to the other in vivid detail? Of course if John were to have done that then he'd have came within moments and not had time to enjoy hearing the silence,  the soft moans of John. He head it.  John saying his name while thinking about him.    
  
Victor knocks at his door and he's scrambling for something to cover him.  
  
"One moment , John," Sherlock says. Sherlock scrambles under his bedclothes like he's hiding from his mum  
  
"Come in," he says to Victor. Victor cracks the door.  
  
"The car will be here in an hour. I didn't think you were going to sleep"  
  
"Just trying to...rest before we go." It's a lie, a bad one, but Victor doesn't press it.  
  
"Right. right well I'll see you down there. I'll give you a shout when it's here."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Victor nods and closes the door.  
  
When Sherlock gets back to the phone he can hear John snoring. He's out. Saved by John's need to sleep and the copious amounts of liquor he imbibed tonight. Sherlock will text Lestrade. Ask him to check on John in the morning.  He's about to end then call when he decides to do the stupid thing. Isn't that always the way when john's involved?  
  
"John, I....I am not sure what to say but. Well. the truth is...that is to say." And how pathetic that he can't even say it to a sleeping John Watson? He'll never be able to say it while looking at him. "I don't know."

Sherlock then realizes there are no snores now. There is slow breathing on the other line. There is now an awake John Watson hearing him.  
  
"Just say it." John says almost in a whisper.  
  
"I.."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It's ridiculous."  
  
"It's not ridiculous. It's not."  
  
"It is. You're not gay, John."  
  
"I'm....you're right. I don't think I am."  
  
"So I think it's best we just ignore it."  
  
"Ignore it?"  
  
"I think we're both experts in it. I've been doing it for years. We're friends. I am honored to be your friend. I don't want us to be put in a situation where I ruin that."  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"Go back to sleep, John. Please? Just. Please?"

***  
  
Sherlock said please.  it's such a rarity.  John realizes he must truly regret what happened between them tonight. Then John has a certain clarity. He  remembers everything that's happened in the past few months. Him whispering that Sherlock is a liar and Sherlock doing nothing. Him waiting for Sherlock to say something on the tarmac and Sherlock saying nothing.  John all but begging to go with Sherlock.  Sherlock shuts the door every time. It's a defect.

  
"Right. right. of course. I'll um. I'll just go then."  
  
"Good night, John."  
  
"Good night, Sherlock."


	9. Chapter Nine

She should take the stairs. She absolutely should. In case of emergencies you're supposed to take the bloody stairs and a psychopath trying to kill her definitely counts as an emergency. But thing is, she’s never been one to do what she's told. So Janine gets on the lift and presses the top floor's button.  As the doors close she could swear she heard her mum calling her but she knows better. It was a past life calling out, a time when she liked to run up hills,  jump in the mud in order to make it splatter everywhere. That really was the extent of trouble she got into. She liked making things messy and dirty, mostly because she liked to see if she could put on a smile and charm her way out of trouble.  
  
But Aedan. Oh he liked things messy and bloody. He didn't like to charm his way out of anything. He liked to make people so afraid they didn’t mention the dirt… or the blood. And he was good at it.  He found a way around a lot of things. Even things he didn't even have to. Hell he was smarter than their cousin James but he would often send James to take tests in his place at school. Maybe he did that on purpose. It kept Aedan under the radar and amused him to get away with it. Of course it caught up with them in the end.  
  
***  
  
She hates this flat. Has she always? She can’t remember. She has a headache. Should she take her meds? No.  Focusing on the pain is about all she has left right now.  The meandering ebb and flow of images she keeps pushing away is only forgotten when she focuses on the the pain, every version of it. Mary looks around at every item in her and John’s flat. She walks from room to room with her arms crossed and her face stern. Taking it all in. Everything. Each item. Every placement. Nothing misses her review. She shakes her head back and forth. He was right. They were both right. It isn’t really her is it?  
  
She knows she shouldn't be up and about. She lost her child, her daughter, just a few days ago. Then her husband not long after. And grief is everywhere here. It is surrounding her and suffocating her and It’s so utterly pointless, wasteful, awful. She hates the feeling to her core. And sitting around in a flat isn't something she wants to be doing right now. Isn't that where all the trouble started? With her trying to do something as mundane as being the person who could just sit around in a bland flat.  
  
The dossier sat for only a few hours before she first picked it up and put it back down again. It felt like an excuse , a disrespect. But now she needs it. She picks up the file and notes how thin it is. A page or two of information that you could find in public files regarding Jim Moriarty.  But still she reads through it all.  Trying to gleam a bit of information and a direction of where to first look. The dossier's big bullet points show on the final page. A list of possible bolt holes. And a few possible,  unconfirmed, associates of Moriarty's who may have remained despite Sherlock's two year mission. They have only one known associate of Moriarty's currently under surveillance--Mary Morstan.

Mary stares at her chosen name listed as the one and only. She heaves an annoyed sigh. It's truly a bit pathetic to be the sole uncovered soldier but she had a mission while the others (if they are who she thinks they are) had nothing but money and time on their hands. At the bottom of the page are a few photos and list of evidence found in Russia by Sherlock. _If Jim Moriarty's body was actually found in Moscow then who the hell is pretending to be him?_  
  
Mary changes out of dowdy clothes she’d put on this morning while trying to recapture…something. She gets into her own self-created uniform. It is unassuming and functional. A dark grey t-shirt and jeans, black leather jacket, and boots equipped with a blade in the hell. Underneath it all is a bullet proof vest.  The weight is annoying but it’s necessary these days. Though, honestly, Jim’s people normally preferred a head shot. She knows she did.  But with that in mind she wraps a scarf around her neck then walks to John’s closet. She pulls out his flat cap and places it on her head, obscuring her hair.

  
She takes her time in ensuring everything is in place. And in doing that the world realigns to a certain kind of sense. This is familiar.  She is somewhat amused at the muscle memory of it all.  
  
_Hip piece? Check_  
_Ankle? Check._  
_Back? Check._  
_Shoulder? Check. Wait. Yes, check._  
  
Should she ask for an update on John?  No. No. Not mine anymore. Never mine.  
  
There isn't much to go on but Mary wants to see the vehicle from the hospital. It was the first offensive and that is typically where mistakes are made.  Hopefully something is there. And honestly she needs to see it.  Mary sends a text requesting Mycroft allow her to view the car. Two minutes later her phone lights up with an address, a security code, and a few instructions. She doesn’t spare a glance back but takes her keys and heads for the door. She's unsure of when she’ll return to their home, unsure if it counts as a home anymore.  
  
The drive goes by in a blur of memories and scattered images floating in her mind. They all seem to highlight the mistakes she made. God there were so many mistakes. She fights the wince that is threatening to overtake her face.  Nearly every step after she kissed John was a mistake. She knew better.

Very soon she's there.  It’s a nondescript location. Of course it would be.  Almost barren except for the set of three dilapidated buildings. On the corners she spots CCTV that doesn’t match the building. They're all hi-tech, obvious government issue cameras. They’re not supposed to be here. Then again neither is she. Right now she’s supposed to be sat at home with her husband. They would be finalizing their choice of baby names. They’d fight a bit but she’d win because John would let her.  They’d practice the drive to the hospital but no.  Never you mind.  Mary lifts her hands and puts on black gloves. She types the passcode Mycroft sent just moments ago.  
  
The door opens with a woosh and she walks inside. There, sat in the middle of the room, is the car. The car where it all came crashing down. And just fuck. Fuck.  
  
She isn't affected. She won't let herself be. But she can't quite walk for a moment. Her feet are mounted to the floor.  Her heart races and all her training is lost. Emotion is bubbling to the surface in a time and place where they have no use.  She shakes her head no and tries to calm down. The first steadying breath she tries to take in stutters on inhale and exhale. As her eyes close, she bites her lip and it’s almost there. She is almost unable to control it,  but she tries again for a steadying breath. Inhale slowly. Exhale even more so. Almost time to move. Yes, other people might give in and cry. Other people might. But she is solid in her pain and her focus. There is that.  
  
The place looks like a hangar for a rather small airplane. Cement floors.  Blank walls. She takes an unsteady step towards the car. And then another. Every step rings out with a loud echo giving even more gravity to each movement forward. She slips off her gloves and pockets them in her back pocket. When she finally lays her hand on the car and traces the bullet holes with her fingers, she readjusts everything. The touch brings her back to a grounded reality.  She is not looking at the car where her daughter died. This is just a piece of a puzzle she needs to solve in order to complete her mission.  
  
The fine circle holes are fairly numerous. She can see a random spray pattern on the roof but the rest tell a story. They are measured and precise. One bullet hole at the front of the car near the tire still clearly shows the dried blood framing the opening. She thinks back to the report. She was unconscious but this would've been where Edward was taken down. The hood of the car has a few dead center. She lifts the hood and notices one in the engine.  Meant to try to stop it from driving. The bullet definitely would've done the job if John had tried to drive it a few kilometers. Curiously none of the bullets were aimed at the petrol hold.  
  
"But that would've been an easy kill," she says aloud.  
  
"Precisely."  
  
Mary stands and turns. Her face flushes and she knows it shows. She works to regain her composure. Her face is perfectly blank as she finally meets his eyes. 

It isn't entirely unexpected to see Sherlock here but she wasn't exactly prepared for this either. So many words are on the tip of her tongue. There are things she wants to say, things she wants to ask, things she wants to scream.  
  
Not speaking to him since that night was probably a mistake. But they're here now. She wonders if the two of them have finally said it to each other. If she was so easily forgotten even as the ache of his loss still lives in her chest.  
  
"I didn't know you'd be here."  
  
"That's a lie," Sherlock says.   
  
"It's not," she says while shaking her head, trying for a small smile. Though she did know it was a possibility so she concedes the point. "I wasn't sure," she amends.  
  
Sherlock simply nods his head. He sweeps beside her with his hands behind his back and his eyes seem to quickly take in the whole of the car. She looks at him looking but neve touching the car. She can't help but think he most likely sees more than she would even if she spent hours in here.  
  
"Do you know who would be able to make these precise shots? Who was Moriarty's top sniper? Outside of you, of course."  
  
"You know." It’s a statement not a question and yet she wants him to answer that he doesn't know a thing.

  
"Yes. "  
  
"From...," she says then drops it. She doesn't care for confirmation. It could easily be Mycroft as it could have been John. Or their child was dead and he was off chatting merrily away to Sherlock about her past. She makes her face blank. "I'm not even sure it was a sniper of his."  
  
"Another lie," Sherlock says. "That's done. Remember that."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes. I may have given you a pass for John, many in fact, but that is done. I know you now, Mary."  
  
  
"You know nothing," she says and tries to minimalise the emotion in her voice. She knows she fails so she quirks her head and gives a tight smile. "Doesn't matter."  
  
"True. But I wanted you to know. Everything was for..."  
  
"Yes. I know.” She cuts him off. No more games. “And it's over. Fine. So I'll be straight with you and you be.... Sherlock."  
  
"Mm."  
  
"There was me, Janine, and Sebastian. We were all his best. He trusted the other two more than me of course. Sister and lover get top billing.  But I was good for things they couldn't do."  
  
"He needed a sweet-faced person to seduce the best friend of Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"Yes," she says and doesn’t expand. She doesn’t have to. He’ll have it all figured out any way.  "Here." She points to the car. "He missed the tank so he didn't want me dead. You obviously think it's because I'm still in his employ but I honestly don't know why."  
  
"I see. So, Mary or Agra, When was your last contact with good ol’ Jim?"  
  
"The day you died," she says. Her voice is steady. No need to fear the truth now.  
  
Sherlock gives no hint that this information matters.  
  
"Called me from the roof,” she says.  “Contingency plan. I'm sure you've worked it out."  
  
"I understand most of it."  
  
"So all I can think is it’s a message. One I'm not sure of the meaning. I followed his orders."  
  
"A warning perhaps.  An invitation back in more likely."  
  
"Perhaps.  So your turn now. Just tell me." Normally she wouldn’t have to explain further what she's asking about. But sometimes he can be so slow when it comes to John.  
  
"I'm not sure what you mean," he says.  
  
"Let me be clear then.  Have you fucked my husband, Sherlock?"  
  
"No," he says.  
  
There is a wealth of information in how he says no. Mary wonders if Sherlock knows just how much he said. A slight tilt of his head. A small nod when it should have been a shake. A lift of his brow. Something has happened though. She'll never find out more than what he's accidentally given away and she honestly can't stand to hear more. Not in line with her mission. Moving on.  
  
"I'll ring Seb and accept his invitation or affirm the warning,” She says and turns on her heel. Her back to him finally.  “I'll let you know what comes of it."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She starts walking to the door. The sounds of her footsteps echo again. She thinks about turning around but stop herself. Nothing back there. She opens the door and the sun is shining brightly. A big ball of fire. Exact inspiration she needs to right now to scorch the earth.


	10. Chapter Ten

After the phone call ended he’d fallen asleep and dreamed of Sherlock. Dreams flitting in and out of his mind, dreams of him and Sherlock back at 221B arguing over improper things in the fridge, of Sherlock bursting through the door with news of a case. Of Sherlock sweaty and sated laying in his bed with a serene smile on his face. Hell which night doesn’t end with Sherlock on his brain? Having sex with him wasn’t going to change that. Was it sex though? Does it count? It doesn’t even really count as phone sex even. Does it? He’d tried phone sex before. With a few girls back home when he was in Afghanistan. And even with Mary once when she was away. And whatever he and Sherlock did last night wasn’t that. So what the hell was it?

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. And in the middle of everything that is happening. He can’t help but think how ridiculous it is that he’s trying to define this.   _What the hell, Watson? There is a mad man on the loose.  You and your wife split just days before. This, of course, happened after she lost a child which wasn’t yours. Oh and also after she shot your best mate. People are dying. The world makes absolutely no bloody sense and in the middle of it you get drunk and share the oddest bit of phone sex in the history of the phone._

Then John laughs. He laughs because it is all utterly ridiculous. For a second he thinks he might be going crazy because it's all utterly and totally ridiculous isn’t it? But it’s not entirely surprising. Nothing involving Sherlock is really.  

He rolls out of bed and heads to take a shower. He is not surprised to find the exact kind of shampoo and soap he prefers. Mycroft really does know everything about his life.  He shakes his head at the thought. Decides to ignore it. There are more important things to focus on. He showers quickly then picks up a razor to shave the scruff that’s been threatening to overtake the lower half of his face for a week. He lays it down and decides again there are other things to focus on. Besides, if a mustache irked Sherlock, then perhaps a full beard will annoy him so much that he’ll pop up just to tell him it to shave it off.

He gets dressed in precision then turns around his room once, twice. He’s not supposed to leave because he’s safe here. And he cannot work because, even if he doesn’t care about putting himself in danger, then there’s the patients to consider.  He looks over at the few books on the shelf. And there are hundreds in the library downstairs. He could keep himself busy. He could continue to hold himself up. Follow Sherlock’s plan. Stay put. Let Sherlock set the rules.

But there’s more on the line isn’t there? And John isn’t one to want to talk about feelings but if he’s gotten anything from hours and hours of therapy, years and years of confusion then it’s this-- you have to speak in order for others to hear you.  

There are many ways he can try to start this conversation but truth be told he doesn’t want to call or text. He wants to look Sherlock in the eyes. Maybe after he’s punched the git once, maybe twice. But then he wants to bloody talk about it. Like they damn well should have years ago. So he goes to his guards and tells them to take him to 221B.  They don’t argue in the slightest. As the car pulls up, he notices a cadre of cars and what looks like twelve guards standing around the place. A sign on the door says Speedy’s is closed.

  
"What the hell's going on?" John asks.  
  
"Just a minute sir," an agent calls back from the front seat.  
  
John tries the car door and when he realizes it's opened he bolts out the car to front of the door. He flings open the door screaming, "Sherlock! SHERLOCK? Where are you? SHERLOCK?"  
  
"John! The neighbors. Really!" Mrs. Hudson steps out of 221A wearing an apron and a stern look, the one that John has often felt could put the fear of God in anyone who crosses her.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson, what are you doing here? I thought..."  
  
"I had to come back. Just to pick up something a bit too indelicate to mention,” She says and gives a pointed look which clearly says _SHUT IT_. His mouth closes upon understanding. And she continues.  “Since I was here I decided they all needed fattening up."  
  
At this Mrs. Hudson steps away and John spies about 9 agents crammed into her kitchen all eating her pies and cakes. John can't help but smile. In the middle of everything, Mrs. Hudson just wants to make sure everyone is well-fed.  
  
“Right.” John tries to take a breath once he realizes all is well but somehow the air won’t fill his lungs. “Okay,” he breathes out then doubles over. Hands on knees. The feeling in his chest is not unlike how it is for him after waking up after a nightmare, gasping for air, trying to settle down. He closes his eyes. Takes his chin to chest.  
  
“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson says. “What’s wrong? Calm down, luv.”  
  
“I’m alright. I am. Just…give us a minute.”  
  
“Come on upstairs. Sherlock’s not here but you can have a sit. I’ll make us something.”  
  
He finally gets a bit of air and straightens up.  He runs a hand over his face, tries to ignore the agents looking at him like he’s deranged. And okay since their introduction to him was him screaming and having a panic attack then he can see their point.

John's two agents catch up with him now but they say nothing as he gulps down air. Poor guys are probably incredibly trained and yet they're having to deal with this shit.

"Looks like you'll be fine here, sir." One of the agent says and the other remains motionless. "Mind if we kip away for a few hours then?"

"No, of course not. God. I'm sorry about that," John says. "I'll be fine here for a few hours. Place is pretty well guarded as you can see," John say.

The two agents simply nod and turn. As John turns towards the steps , Mrs. Hudson shoos him up and declares she’ll be up in a minute with tea. Tea that will somehow make it all okay.

  
He isn’t prepared for the way 221B looks when he finally opens the door. Different doesn’t begin to describe it. “Wrong” might be a start. Because it is so, so wrong. The furniture is the same. Same couch. Same coffee table.  Same chairs. Sherlock’s and his. But outside of that it looks different. The blanket over his chair is gone. The boxes and boxes of things are gone. No stack of military magazines. No bison skull on the wall. No clue game. No…almost anything. Billy the skull is there but outside of that it’s almost unrecognizable.  The place is almost a blank. Nothing sits on the shelves. Sherlock’s wall of clues is not pinned up. Instead the pock marked wallpaper is on display. John turns a corner and the kitchen table is …clean. Impossibly and unfathomably clean. The printers are gone. No newspapers. No microscope or Erlenmeyer flasks full of God knows what. It’s blank. Completely blank. It’s as if there was never a life shared between these walls. As if he or Sherlock was never really here.  
  
John walks stiff-legged around the place taking in everything that is missing and changed. He can’t fathom why it’s like this. Maybe Mycroft had it packed up when he was sending Sherlock away. But Sherlock was coming back so why?  And even if Mycroft did then why hadn’t Sherlock sent for his things? Hell he was gone two years and he left the place as a monument to everything Sherlock.  And why the fuck does John have to ponder these questions and not have Sherlock here to bloody give him one bleedin’ answer?

His arms are held firm at his side. As if they are mounted to his side. His hand curls in on itself , loosens then tightens again. Again and again. He takes a breath. It’s just a flat. It’s just a few things he was used to seeing.  And yet ,for some reason, he feels broken.  Maybe this was the final clue that things are forever altered and he’ll never be here again. It’ll never be like it was. Maybe Sherlock knew that. Maybe that’s why he asked John to forget.  
  
“John, help an old lady.” Mrs. Hudson walks in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.  
  
“You’re not old,” John says but does indeed walk over and takes the tray out of her hands. He places it on the unused tea table beside Sherlock’s chair.  
  
“Well sit,” she says  
  
He eyes his chair with an uneasiness. It’s just a chair but sitting in it right now seems wrong and…to be honest a bit confusing. John waves his hand, directing Mrs. Hudson to his chair over Sherlock’s. “I know you prefer it over this thing,” he says. She gives him a curious look as she sits down then seems to let it go.

“I’ll be mother, of course.” She pours him tea and remembers exactly how he takes it. Then she pours herself a long draw. She pauses, looks over at John, and gives him a wink before pulling out a flask from her apron pocket and pouring what looks to be whiskey into her cup. She places it back in with a pat and says, “Sit. Drink. C’mon. It’ll do you good.”  
  
John looks at Sherlock’s chair and as wrong as it felt to sit in his chair, he also felt completely out of place to sit in Sherlock’s. He looks around quickly and brings his chair from the partner’s desk forward. He picks up the cup and it’s half-way to his mouth when he stops then reaches with his free hand to take a bit of sugar and he mixes it into his cup.  
  
Mrs. Hudson opens her mouth to say something then takes her cup to her mouth and takes a drink.  
  
“So,” she says. Her eyes move across the room. Taking it in and John follows her gaze closely. The empty shelves. The clear partner’s desk. The curios missing from every surface. “Seems he’s redecorated a bit.”  
  
“Yea,” John says. He can't quite add more. He doesn't know why Sherlock did this and he can't even begin to guess why.  
  
“Much cleaner.”  
  
“Yea.”  
  
“I don’t like it,” Mrs. Hudson says then screws up her nose. Her mouth making a worried frown. She shakes her again and affirms, “not at all.”  
  
John huffs out a laugh.  He takes in yet another overview of the room. “Yeah, me either. Wonder what he’s thinking.”  
  
“Oh, God, who knows. You never can quite figure out things with him sometimes.”  
  
John’s smile is sad, telling. He says nothing and takes a sip. Sugar wasn’t awful in it. He could see liking it at times. Not sure why he was against it all these years.  Unsure of why he never even gave it a try.  
  
“Of course, he’s also not as secretive about things as we all like to claim. Sometimes he’s an open book.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Like when he moved your chair after you…” Mrs. Hudson pauses seemingly not wanting to mention John’s failed marriage.  She knows. She must. But who would’ve told her? What all did they say?  
  
“It’s okay, Mrs. Hudson. It’s fine.”  
  
“Oh, John, luv. I am, I am truly sorry for your loss.”  
  
At this John feels tears prickle at his eyes. He knows she means it and she has no ulterior motives. She just wants John to be happy. It was them who went through the loss of Sherlock together. She saw him at his worst. Even before Lestrade came by. Before Harry even thought to call. She was there. She would often hear him puttering around in the middle of the night. Woken up after a nightmare that involved everything from the war to losing patients. But always, always ending with Sherlock dead on the pavement. And when she’d hear she’d silently bring up tea and something to nibble on. Sometimes she’d sit along with him,  sitting silently as he drank. Other times she simply left him to it. She always seemed to know which times were which.  
  
“Thank you. I… thank you.”  
  
“I had hoped.” She began then stopped and seems to measure her words. “Hoped that she was the right one for you. Sherlock seemed to think so.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Oh, yes.” Her face seems to light at that. Remembering. “He was sad to see you go. Or rather he was sad that you’d gone. That you weren’t here when he came back. That first night. You and him had seen each other at the restaurant and then he came here. Nearly scared me to death. Thought I was seeing ghosts.”  
  
“Me too. Me too at first,” John begins then stops himself. He’d never told anyone this. “I thought I was going mad really. I was about to propose to Mary. And I was nervous, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But I had thought back on my life and how she…well. Well regardless of everything it’s still true. She helped me. And she was the first to make me feel since…” He stops. He didn’t want to say it out loud. Even if the truth of it was obvious to anyone. Everyone.  
  
“Since Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson completes the sentence. She knows. Of course she does.  
  
“Yeah, since…yeah. And I looked up and there he was. The great berk. Standing there with a drawn on mustache, looking at me like I should be laughing instead of punching him.”  
  
“Oh, John.”  
  
“And the mad thing is. Part of me wanted to laugh. To laugh at the absurdity of him coming back from the dead and surprising me in a restaurant while doing an appalling French accent.” John laughs. “But also out of sheer joy. He was back, Mrs. Hudson, and I wanted… I wanted to tell him. But then it all came back. All the pain. The resentment.  And here I was about to propose marriage.  And, And… he didn’t give me a reason to…He didn’t even tell me to…” John turns away at that. Tries to blink it back while staring at the walls. Tries to ignore it. He tries finding something, anything in the room to focus his attention on but Sherlock, once again, left him with nothing but emptiness and nothing to focus on but Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.  
  
“Wait,” Mrs. Hudson finishes his sentence again. “He didn’t tell you to wait, John.”  
  
John turns his head back to Mrs. Hudson at that. His eyes still a bit watery. He shakes his head slowly, bites his lip.  He looks down at the tea gone cold his hands. Then to the floor. He couldn’t. She was always saying but he can’t quite. He has to forget. Just like Sherlock said to forget. But hell if anyone in the world would understand it then it’s Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I wish he had told me. I wish I had waited.” John gives a false half-smile and says, “At least it would’ve saved me the money we spent on that wedding.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson simply smiles. She reaches out her hand to John’s cup and takes it. She takes out her flask and adds whiskey to John’s cup as well.  
  
“You need this more than me dear, ” she says.  
  
John laughs. “Maybe. Then again you didn’t sign up for all this. God how many guards do they have on you?”  
  
“I believe 29 at last count. But that’s down from the 95 that Sherlock first suggested.”  
  
“God.”  
  
“He’s a bit dramatic that one,” Mrs. Hudson says and settles back in the chair. “Still he means well.”  
  
“I suppose.”

“Oh, John, I-well. Do you mind if I’m terribly personal with you?”  
  
“Mrs. Hudson, you have on a number of occasions informed me that you’ll be happy to pick up lube for Sherlock and me. I think we’re far past terribly personal don’t you?”  
  
“Shush John. I never said-” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Lube.”  
  
“No, what was it?” John picks up a biscuit, takes a bite of it, and sits back in his chair. “It was…”  
  
“Bedroom aides. That’s the proper way to say it. And I was only trying to help. You were both so busy all the time. Always running here and there.  I didn’t want you to find yourselves in a tight situation.”  
  
John laughs. He can’t help himself. It starts with a small chuckle then grows into a huge laugh which he can’t stop. Mrs. Hudson lets out a small twitter then also gives into laughter.

“I cannot believe. I can’t believe I am talking about this with you,” John says with a laugh.  
  
“Oh hush. I’m not your mum. I’m your landlady.”

  
“Not all landladies sign up for this kind of stuff,” John says. He heaves a sigh and a wave of his hands meant to encompass all the madness that entails life in 221B.  
  
“I did,” Mrs. Hudson says with a smile. She tilts her chin up showing how proud she is to say that. “And I would again. Because I love you both. And you both…..well you both really need it.”  
  
John picks up his cup. Takes a sip. The whiskey is actually quite good. Even in cold tea.  
  
“Well thank you. You should know that we…well we both. I mean we don’t really say…”  
  
“I know,” she says and lays a quick hand on John’s before placing it back in her lap.  
  
The silence then fills the space of the room.  And John has a moment to take in the room again. To remember that things aren’t what they were before.  
  
“So,” he says and places his tea back in the saucer. “You were going to be terribly personal?”  
  
“Well. Let me ask you a question. Why are you here?”  
  
John shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders.  He tries to feign something other than the truth. “Dunno. Just…figured I’d pop round for a visit. Maybe see you.”  
  
“You didn’t know I was here, dear.” She tilts her head, lifts her eyebrows, smiles. The wrinkles around her eyes crinkle and he knows she knows.  
  
“I needed to see him.”  
  
“And he needs to see you.” She says then leans forward.  
  
“We both know that’s not true. Or else.  Well I’d be here wouldn’t I? He’s not one to be denied, is he? If he wanted me here. If he _needed_ me I’d be here in a sec--. It doesn’t matter. I wanted to see him. He’s not here. I’ll go back to my exile. It’s fine. “  
  
“Oh, John.”  
  
“It’s. fine.  He’ll handle all this business with Moriarty and…Mary.” John shrugs his shoulders. Starts to nod his head minutely as if he’s convincing himself, agreeing with a version of himself that’s trying to believe this. “And I’ll get another job. Maybe won’t date my nurse. Maybe will do a background check if I do.”  
  
“Or you will date Sherlock.”  
  
“What?” John flusters. Shakes his head. Lifts a hand as if to stop her. “What do you mean?”  
  
“John, dear. John, you’re both idiots. I get it. I do. This is hard. Love always is ya know. And I imagine it’s a damn sight more hard what with having crises all over the place. You with worrying about loving someone with a…with a bit of tackle. And him with worrying about ...well him just about loving someone. Letting that heart of his actually beat for someone other than himself.  But you must have seen it by now. How much longer? How much longer do you two ignore this?”  
  
John sat stunned. His mouth falls open.  
  
“Do close your mouth, dear,” She said.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson, I’m not, we’re not. I mean. He’s just a--”  
  
“Shush,” she says. “Just remember. Nothing guarantees tomorrow. How many wasted yesterdays do you want in your life?”  
  
At that an agent appears at the door knocking gently to announce his presence.

“Mrs. Hudson, I simply must insist that we leave,” he says while wiping away crumbs from his face. “Though if you want to stop by the shops for ingredients on the way back then I’m sure we can find the time.”  
  
Mrs.Hudson turns around and smiles. “Of course, of course. Coming…now what was your name again?”  
  
“Henry, ma’am.”  
  
“Henry, I’ll be right along.”  
  
“Of course, ma’am.”  
  
And then Mrs. Hudson turns back to John and looks him in the eyes. He can tell instinctively that whatever she says will brook no argument. “Wait here. He’ll be back later. Wait here. Then _talk_ to him.  One of you has to stop playing the fool. And we all know it has to be you. Now John.” She stands and lifts her arms “Give us a hug and wish me luck that I won’t be violently murdered on my way back to the safe house.”  
  
“Don’t even think it,” John says.  “Sherlock is right. England would fall without you.” He closes his arms around her and hugs her as tight as he thinks she can take. Before he let’s go he says, “Thank you.”  
  
“Oh shush. I signed up for this remember?” At that she lets go and heads to the door.  “Oh, I almost forgot. She dashes over to the skull and picks it up. Pulls out a small bag and then slides it in her bra. “For my hip remember?”  
  
“Of course,” John says with a smile.  
  
She smiles and walks to the door and closes it. John walks to the window and sees her get in the car. Sees agents upon agents get in the first car, second car, and third car. They all drive away. John turns around.  
  
“Right,” he says to himself. “Right.” He gives a small nod of his head. A half smile forms on his face. He goes to sit in his chair and just as Mrs. Hudson commanded, he waits.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: lotta, lotta talking but hey that's why I wrote the whole thing anyway.

It is not long after Mrs. Hudson takes her leave that John finds himself standing at the window, looking down at the street , wondering when Sherlock will be home and exactly what he'll say to him, what he wants to say to him. It's not easy to admit you're confused about a situation and don't know the next step. John appreciates some semblance of a plan, a path to follow. And there is none here. How many men this side of forty are struggling with their emotions for their recently returned from the dead best friend? John likes knowing who he is and now he doesn't know. Doesn’t know what he sees. His eyes gloss over then he sees his reflection in the window and wonders if he is looking at a gay man. He's not. He doesn't think so. What does a label matter? But as long as he's, not fearful , but reluctant to place it on himself, then it does matter.

Cards on the table, Watson,’ He says to himself. He remembers and let’s every ignored thought come to light. Fine, yes, there was an electric charge between him and James. There were moments that seemed they were on the edge of something happening but nothing ever really did.

One day during a firefight when he'd gotten too close to an RPG , the jeep next to him exploded in a stunning moment of fire and heat, he'd been pulled from the fray just in time by James. They said nothing but both knew James had saved his life. A nod of the head to each other and then it was back to business. He patched up the wounded and James directed the soldier’s movements to safety. It wasn't later until John had walked out of the field hospital and was heading back to his bunk when James had pulled him into the empty, dark mess hall and hugged him tight. John had embraced him right back and held firm. They said no words as they pulled apart and looked at each other. He was sure they both wanted to say more, do more but James simply turned away. And so did John.

So Sherlock wasn't the first man that John fell in line with but he's never touched a bloke, never really wanted to. Until Sherlock. Sherlock who came into his life and saved him in a thousand ways. Sherlock who made him laugh until his sides ached, made him race through the streets of London, made him mourn. Also it was Sherlock who inspired the most confused wank fantasies of his life. He remembers it like it was yesterday. He was in Ireland at a RSM conference and Sherlock hadn't called or texted. He didn't check in to see how the day had went or demand John complete impossible tasks. Nothing.

John had wanted to call him or text him or anything but that was a bit weird wasn't it? Do blokes check in with their mates when they're out of town? So he didn't. He read over the notes from the day and didn't call Sherlock. He watched a bit of telly and didn't call Sherlock. He ate at a local restaurant and didn't call Sherlock. And then he readied himself for bed with a shower and slipped into bed without calling Sherlock. But then Sherlock called him. He asked John to pick up some milk on his way home. John didn't bother pointing out he was hundreds of miles away and instead asked him how his day went. And Sherlock didn't rush him off the phone but told him. Sherlock explained the experiment he was working on, talked about an update to his blog he was ruminating on and so forth. John fell asleep with Sherlock in his ear. When he woke up the call had ended, Sherlock was gone. Also John was incredibly hard. So hard. He took his cock in hand and gave a stroke while mentally compiling his favorite images but nothing doing. And honestly he was just a bit curious how he got in this state. He couldn't remember waking up in the middle of the night so hard since he was a teen. And for a few minutes he thought perhaps Sherlock had said something to him while he was asleep to cause this. Some kind of weird experiment. But that was insane ,he thought, and moved on. Still his mind dwelled on Sherlock. And for some reason he remembered how Sherlock looked when he saw him last.

Sherlock was sat on the couch in nothing but a sheet looking like some fucking god that desperately needed to be sculpted. _Or fucked mercilessly_ , John's mind supplied. And then the images morphed into a picture of Sherlock's lips parted, his face flushed, his eyes closed, a small moan escaping his lips and John felt his cock twitch at the thought.

It was the middle of the night in a hotel room far from home. If ever was a time to just go with the flow now was it so he continued to let his mind pool the images of Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.  Sherlock's mouth on him, Sherlock's taste in his mouth, Fucking Sherlock. By the time John came in his spit-slicked hand, his heavy breathing was nothing but an accompaniment to the thoughts of the melody of Sherlock. And he wanted. Christ he wanted. He closed his eyes and fuckin hell he had just came moments earlier but he still wanted. He wanted Sherlock. Absolutely wanted him regardless of anything. He wanted to take him to bed and make him cry out in agony and ecstasy of John Watson coming inside him. John had screwed up his eyes and shook his head enough to dislodge the hard hotel pillow. That wasn't Sherlock to him and he wasn't that to Sherlock. So he calmed his breath, counted to ten, and planned to go out pulling with Stamford as soon as he got back to London.

So he knows it. He's wanted Sherlock before. But wank sessions involving his flatmate were few and far between after. He made sure every time he gave into one that he'd took time to go out and find someone to bring to his bed. So he assumed he only thought of Sherlock when he was just incredibly hard up. Not the simplest of reminders to scratch that itch but it worked. It worked until Sherlock died and then the fantasies morphed into not fucking Sherlock but just sitting with him and talking. The grief that he felt made him realize that he wanted more and desperately wished he had another chance.

And now he has one. And he's going to take it. Fuck everything. Gay, bi, straight. It doesn’t matter. He wants Sherlock. Cards on the table and they read that John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes. He'll stand in front of Sherlock and tell him everything. Sherlock won't have to deduce a bloody thing because John will say it all, will say everything. No more hiding.

John is still standing at the window when many, many black cars pull up in front of 221B. They're not unlike those that left with Mrs. Hudson earlier. For a moment John thinks she'll pop out and say she forgot something. Then men get out and scatter. They are speedily talking into walkie talkies and moving fast. Then John sees Sherlock and his mouth falls open, his chest aches just a little bit because it's been far too long since he's seen him. He wants to run down to him but he'll wait. It should be here, in the space they shared together. He hears the doors opening and closing down stairs and hears people giving a clear. Sherlock looks up towards the building but not at the window. He's checking the buildings around them. Then a man steps up next to him and stands a bit too close and for some reason Sherlock allows it. It's Victor, John realizes. His hand clenches and unclenches and he shakes it out. Doesn’t matter. He'll have his say Victor or no. Then Victor’s hands move to the small of Sherlock's back and Sherlock allows that too. John stands unmoving and barely breathing as he notices Victor round in front of Sherlock, pull him close, and a smile is on Sherlock’s lips. Victor leans forward and kisses Sherlock quickly then releases him. Sherlock is smiling at Victor and they take each other’s hands and begin to walk forward. Sherlock spares a glance toward the window then. John isn't sure why but he immediately hides so Sherlock can't see him. Then he realizes the agents will be here soon and he has to get out. He can’t be here. Not after. He was a fool. He thinks about hiding in his room but any agent worth their salt will check there. If they're trained they’ll notice him leaving as well. So he legs it to the one place he's sure Sherlock wouldn’t have allowed the agents to search—Sherlock’s room. Sure enough an agent comes into 221b as soon as John gently closes Sherlock’s door. John imagines his movements-- kitchen, John’s room, loo, sitting room. Then the agent’s steps gets closer to Sherlock's room. John hears the agent say, "all clear except the royal bedroom that his lord won't let us touch."

"Alright sending the happy couple up." Seemingly another agent replies. John hears the retreating steps of the agent and so John sits on Sherlock’s bed and waits. He tries to figure out how to get out of there as soon as possible. A few seconds later he hears Sherlock and Victor enter the flat.

"So, where should we check next my love?" Victor asks.

"Enough of that please?" Sherlock says. Victor doesn't respond. John imagines he'd pout his lips at that. And then there is silence, too much silence. Perhaps Sherlock silenced Victor with a kiss. John is murderous and he wants to stomp out there right now. Stake a claim like he’s some caveman. Except Sherlock isn’t his. And maybe he’s too late to even ask.

"Look here," Sherlock says.

"Oh right. Could be a bolt hole. We just got here but shall we check?"

"Mm. You check. I'm meeting Lestrade. We'll review your findings later."

"Dinner?" Victor asks.

"Not eating right now," Sherlock says.

"Sherlock , you have to eat something," Victor admonishes and John sees red. And he knows he shouldn't. It's good this man is making Sherlock eat but at the same time he feels replaced in more ways than one and this is the topper.

"I will. Later," Sherlock says and his tone is final.

"I'll pick something up for me and I'll just kiss you until you give in and eat in order to make me stop." Victor says then laughs.

Sherlock sighs.

"Alright, Alright, I'm going," Victor says. John hears the doors open and close. He is thinking of announcing his presence when he hears Sherlock call Lestrade to tell him he's on his way then more doors opening and closing. And he knows the place is empty again. John waits a few moments then opens the bedroom door and sees 221B as empty as before and so is he.

****

Sherlock walks into NSY and notes to himself again that it feels odd to be there without John. To be answering Lestrade’s questions and not have John handing him a cup of tea or nagging Sherlock to eat something. Not even there to fall asleep with gentle snores filling the evidence locker.

And it's fine. It's fine that John isn't here. He has to focus. His mind has been on a loop for the past twenty four hours playing John's moans and guttural groans filled with pleasure of release. A release that Sherlock helped him bring about just by being there and he can’t stop listening. He is replaying the final sound John made as he came when he walks into the corner of Donovan's desk.

"Oy watch it," she says and he apologizes quickly before continuing on. He walks a bit more before remembering that he never apologizes and if he does then it surely isn't to Donovan.

"Greg's in there," She points to a video room. Sherlock furrows his brow but realizes she must be talking about Lestrade and so he turns towards the door and enters.

"Finally," Lestrade says and stands up. He walks around the table and picks up a piece of paper. "So get this the little old lady who disappeared with the mysterious video. She was a teacher. Taught school for 58 years. She can't be related to Moriarty."

Lestrade tosses him a full folder of information across the table. Sherlock does not reach for it just glances at the information that falls out of the folder. A teaching evaluation. Top marks. A letter from an old student saying he appreciated her for all the help. A work history that according to tax records and so forth. The information seems to have spanned decades.

"You feel this information means she can't be tied to him?"

"Yeah. I mean. Hear me out here. I know you're the genius but maybe Moriarty sent this my way or put it in my path as you'd say. How do we know he's not just twisting us around like he did last...ya know then."

"Then? Did you mean when you all thought I'd created Moriarty, kidnapped two small children, and were responsible for several crimes?"

"Sherlock--"

Sherlock holds his hand up to halt Lestrade from whatever feeble apology he’s about to make. It wasn't his fault really.

"So perhaps you'll also remember 'then' was also accompanied by a slew of evidence that seemed to point to one direction. You were right to notice this case. You did a good job, Lestrade. So don't ruin it with doubting yourself."

Lestrade sits down in his chair as if the wind has been knocked out of him but in a good way. Sherlock eye's him for a moment, says nothing. He hits play on the video of the woman's disappearance again. Hears the notes play in his head. Discordant melody. Lestrade clears his throat and looks up at him.

"You, you've changed."

"I don’t know what you mean."

"Oh , sure, because three years ago you'd tell me I did a good job and not call me an idiot five times in under thirty seconds."

"Well you are an idiot."

"You said I did a good job."

"Everyone idiot gets lucky once in a while."

"Right." Lestrade gives him a grin, stands, and moves towards the monitor and turns it off. Sherlock straightens up and looks at Lestrade. Lestrade is trying to deduce him. Laughable but Sherlock stands straight, let him try his rudimentary techniques on him. "So, how is John? Have you talked?" Lestrade asks and it feels like a parry but it works. Dammit.

"I...I'm sure he's fine."

"He is. I talked to him last night. Had a drink with him."

"I'm aware."

"He seemed a bit put out, seemed like he hadn't heard from you much since this whole mess began again."

"Mmm."

"But he'll be fine. He got over you abandoning him once before right? No reason he can't do it again."

Sherlock does not respond, will not respond. He knows damn well what Lestrade is doing or trying to do. He won't rise to the bait.

"You said you'd received another camera angle of the disappearance." Sherlock tries to get him back on topic. Doesn't have time for these games, emotions.

"I do. Would you like to see it?"

"Don't play games, Lestrade. You need my help more than I need yours."

"I suppose that's true. Not suppose. It is true. But if she is connected to Moriarty then you need to see this so."

"So. So what? Play the damn video."

"Of course, Sherlock. Sure." Lestrade clicks on his laptop, inputs his password, much longer than usual and then turns the laptop towards Sherlock. Clicks play.

Sherlock sees the video load. Sees the woman walk into the sitting area of the convalescence home full of comfortable chairs and a games table. Her face is clearer and he's even more sure that she is the same person in the painting with Moriarty. From this angle, Sherlock can see a smile on her face. Almost a manic grin.

"So what are you thinking? His dear old mum he packed away until he felt like kidnapping her?"

"Possible," Sherlock says. "Feels like a piece is missing. What do we know? We know Janine appears to be his sister. This woman appears to be his mother. Janine says he was never in any danger. At the same time apparently he sends someone to re-recruit Mary or send her a message that she'll be the next victim. She favors the latter. I favor the former. And we have the note."

"What now?"

"Did I not share that?"

"No, Sherlock, you great bloody....never mind. Where is it?"

"I have it memorized." Sherlock says and then he recites the note "S, When J is taken away then J cannot say. The wrongdoing of M can never stop hiM. The game is simple. The solution is too. Two and Second and Give me the One. And hell let's make it fun. One D for my M. Signed with a J"

"Mental."

"Yes."

"Right. What does it mean then?"

"If I knew that then he'd be dead and we'd be sharing a pint right now."

Lestrade laughs. "You? Share a pint?"

"Well whatever celebratory thing I could force myself to do."

"Ahh so we break it down to what we know right?"

"Of course. Base level of deduction. Start with what you know to be true."

"So ‘S’ is you right? ‘J’ is him. And uhhhh. Well two and second and give me the one. Could be 221. Who would he feel has done him wrong?"

"Some 'M' person."

"Mary?"

"It fits, yes. She being supposed to watch John and kill him if I was alive, but he indicates whatever it was they did wrong was meant to stop him. Nothing she's revealed seems to have been something that would contribute to his fall. That would be me."

"Yeah...and your brother."

"Mycroft. Could be."

"Alright so what else? One ‘D’ for my ‘M.’"

"He thinks I have something or I can give him something."

"D?"

"Doesn't matter. The "my" meaning it's something of his. He thinks I have something of his."

"Right. Did you perhaps nick his very best toy when you were both up on that roof?"

"Not that I recall."

"So, that day, what happened really?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does. Come on. Wouldn't you say something like everything matters when you're trying to solve a puzzle?"

"I've never said anything of the sort."

"But it's true isn't it?"

"No, it's not. But I'll indulge you to a degree. I'd assumed Philip had told you everything."

"Yeah, Anderson said you'd--wait. You know his first name?"

"It's hardly a secret is it?"

"Nor is mine."

"I'm well aware of your name, Lestrade."

"Alright go on then."

"I just used it."

"Funny. Go on. Out with it. I mean you know bloody Anderson's name. You probably have John's favorite flavor of weetabix memorized. Surely you know my first name. "

"I...Lestrade, we're hardly in a place to spend time on such trivial matters."

"You're right we're not."

"Good then so let's look at the-"

"But we are going to anyway."

"You called me remember?"

"I did. You're right. Fine. It’s Greg by the way. Greg. File it away. So the solution is simple. Right? Could it be one of those riddles that gives you the answer in a clever way?"

"So the solution is "simple"?

"Right. So if you take that then you use all the other riddle rules and you've solved it."

"Rules? What rules? Riddles given to you by mad men don't have rules."

"Maybe not typically but riddles in general. They're made up to show how clever they are and since he's a ponce then he'll want to follow those rules. The riddle gives you the answer so the solution is simple and you use the rest of the words to figure it all out. You follow?"

"Yessss I think so."

"You don't , do you? Oh let me bask in this one moment."

"A moment in which a madman has us all under siege and you want to gloat over knowing something I don't?"

"Yes! Oh, I should go out and celebrate after. Get a few pints and toast to this momentous occasion."

"I'd think you'd had enough last night."

"John tell you? Come on. Tell us. You two finally kiss and make up. He was in a right state last night. "

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asks then quickly decides to move on. Focus. "Never mind. Let's focus on this."

"Of course, right. So did you then?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you talk to him? He's been through the ringer. First...well you go and die. Then he meets Mary. She turns out to be...., he loses a kid. Even if it's not his kid. At least the possibility was there and that's a whole other hurt that she was messing around on him. I can tell you it's not a good feeling. That alone will drive a man to drink but then all the other stuff. I was well glad to get him a bit soused last night. He needed it. Needs a bit of happiness."

"Mmm."

"You do too," Lestrade adds quickly and then looks over at Sherlock until he looks up from the video he was replaying. "I mean it. You both. I mean I'm not saying anything, just you both deserve a bit of happiness. That's all."

"Are you done?"

"Sorry. Just having a moment."

"Please be done with it as I think I've solved it."

"Alright. Go on. Show us."

"If the solution is simple. And we use your riddle rules."

"Not mine."

"Then two and second. So we have s-i-m-p-l-e. If we take out two and the second two which is the fourth then we are left with smle."

"What the hell's SMLE?"

"A rifle. A sniper's rifle."

"God."

"But that doesn't tell us much else."

"Don't you have one of his sniper's in custody?"

"What do you mean?"

"Anderson, he said three assassins that day. One for Mrs. Hudson, One for me (thanks for doing that btw), and One for John. The other two immediately stood down because they were given word you'd jumped but apparently the third was one you guys persuaded to not shoot. I assume by persuaded you did so with either a bullet or with an army and you locked him up. So where is he? Can't you ask him?"

"You're very smart today."

"I'm smart every day. Just with you around I sound like a tit. So what next?"

"Moran. His name was Moran."

"So there's your M then."

"One ‘D’ for my ‘M.’"

"Where is he then?"

"He's dead. Or so my brother says," Sherlock says. "Executed in a quick trial." Sherlock says the last sentence and then stares off into space. As if he's reorganizing his thoughts. And then he sees. The information, the intel. Just like Victor said. The op is only as good as the intel you have. And Mycroft would not destroy an asset until he'd gotten it's full worth. Lestrade keeps talking not noticing Sherlock's realization.

"And Moriarty wants him back. But what does that have to do with this woman?"

 

"I-I'm not sure," Sherlock says and takes out his phone, sends a text to Mycroft, waits for the confirmation of what he already knows. " All I know is what we have here so we have a type of rifle used by a sniper, the fact that we had captured his favorite sniper, and no idea what next. But he wouldn't have told us about the rifle just to remind us , no. Everything has more than one meaning. So the rifle. SMLE."

"Hold on I'll look it up on my computer"

"No need, Mind palace. I'm locating it," Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a breath. " Also known as the Lee-Enflield. No. Used by the British army standard issue until. No. Known as the 303."

"Wait. 303. Like the road?"

Sherlock's eyes pop open and go wide "The road, of course."

"I am buying myself three pints after this."

Sherlock unlocks his phone, brushes away a bit of disappointment at not having messages and pulls up maps, maps, all the maps.

"Anything?" Lestrade asks.

"Yes, here," Sherlock points."This is where we buried Moriarty's body."

"The same body you found in Russia? No one wants to stay dead these days."

"This cemetery is guarded day and night. I don't know how or what Moriarty would've put there. But also there's this. 30 kilometers in the other direction. The only manufacturer of the SMLE in England. "

"Could be a coincidence."

"The universe is rarely that lazy. No, there is something to find at one or both of these locations. Something there will lead us to Moriarty."

"Right and where are you shuttling me of to?"

"Me and Victor can check the weapons factory. More than likely the location. You and the officers go find the grave marked 'JME' at the back, twelve graves from the left."

"Right. Yeah. Sally?" Greg calls out and within seconds the door is flung open with Donovan looking perturbed. She gives a brief look towards Sherlock , which he ignores, and then back to Lestrade.

"Yeah?"

"We're going to Basingtoke."

"Basingtoke? What the bloody hells in Basingtoke?" Sally asks.

"Possibly nothing." Sherlock says.

"Ignore him. Could be something to do with this whole Moriarty business. Wouldn't it be nice to catch the man finally?"

"I'll get a car," she says and walks away.

"Get Jones and Evans on it as well. We’ll need backup." He calls out as she waves a hand in acknowledgement and picks up her phone.

"It could be nothing," Sherlock says.

"No, no you're not taking this away from me. You were impressed by me and all. Now I'm going to go catch this Moriarty and wrap this whole business up." Lestrade gives a smile , gathers his coat, and heads for the door. "So the old woman was nothing? He must've known you'd put two and two together."

"Could be distraction," Sherlock says as he's typing out a message to Victor." Doesn't matter now. Victor and I will check the weapons factory. Also possibly a dead end but it's the best option we have for now."

Lestrade stops, turns around, looks at Sherlock "Victor. Right. You wouldn't maybe want to take John?"

"You'd like me to put John in danger when I have a very capable alternative? I take back the "smart" compliment."

"Nevertheless. He seemed like he wanted to talk to you last night."

"Which explains why you told him more than he needed to know. Can we leave now?"

"Yeah. Just hold up a minute. Look I don't want to poke my nose where it doesn't belong."

"But you're going to force yourself. Really, Lestrade, do I have to remind you that we have business elsewhere?"

"Fine. Go," Lestrade says and opens the door. As Sherlock gets ready to step through it however Lestrade stops, turns around and faces him dead on. "Sorry. I just. When are you going to get your head out your ass, Sherlock?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You do. You have to. You're the world's smartest man. You have got to know. Look I get it. Years go by. You start to think things are one way when they're actually the other but then eventually you open up your eyes and you see what's in front of you. And you realize that things not only can be different but are blood well different. You hear me, Sherlock? They _should_ be different."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean."

Lestrade gives a frustrated growl. He starts pacing the room and Sherlock's eyebrows furrow together in confusion.

"I mean John."

"Ahh."

"I mean. Look we'll ignore this as soon as I'm done alright?"

"Then please finish quickly."

"You two. You're not just normal friends. And I don't want to go telling you your business but he's been through the ringer, Sherlock. And you, you have too considering everything you've been through in the past few years. Not to mention how you were before that. But John… he's good yeah? And I see the way Victor looks at you and hell not so long ago I never would've even thought fine but I get it. He's a handsome bloke. Seems fit. Capable like you said. But don't. Whatever you're doing. Don't because you think you know everything. You don't know this. And John's been through enough without you ignoring both of yourselves for...just. don't."

Sherlock ponders over the words Lestrade has sputtered out, looks for the meaning among them, pieces together garbled sentences and as he's still trying to understand the full intent he hears himself begin to speak in a small voice, words tumbling out before he can stop himself.

"He doesn't want me, Greg."

"Ahhh bollocks. That is bollocks. The man looks at you like you hung the moon and invented the stars. You didn't see him, Sherlock. After you left. You didn't see him. I mean it was a tragic for sure. And I mourned. Anderson went off the deep end. Sally took leave. Mrs. Hudson was beside herself. But hell, Sherlock. John couldn't be moved, wouldn't move. It was like he just sat down one day and it seemed like he wasn't ever going to get up again."

"That only means..."

"It means a lot of things but it doesn't bloody take a genius to see he wasn't mourning a friend. He was mourning someone who he shared his life with. Someone he...well it's not my place to say but it's someone he loved. I've...uh well you know. I've had my share of that. Being left behind and I recognize it. Look just. I'm not saying that it'll be easy and simple. I mean it involves you so it damn well can't be simple. And he's had a lifetime of being one thing but....just don't be an idiot, Sherlock. Just don't alright?"

"I-"

"I'm done."

Sherlock who had his head held down lifts it, replaces the look of confusion on his face with a composed look.

"Please text me if you find something."

"Yeah you do the same."

***

Sherlock and Victor exit the weapons factory, Sherlock says nothing. Disappointing. Nothing to find there. He texts Lestrade that they found nothing and assumes he'll hear back from him saying the same soon.

"Shall we go home darling?" Victor asks and then nuzzles close into Sherlock's neck for a kiss.

"Fine."

As they walk to their car, Victor winds his hand into Sherlock's and gives a squeeze "You know I don’t believe anyone watching us is going to believe that I'm your new helpmate if you're ignoring me when we're in public."

"As I think this is an asinine idea then I'm fine with that."

"Sherlock," Victor stops and turns around to look at him. Sherlock stops and holds his gaze. "This isn’t a bad plan of your brothers. Takes the heat off your friends and I’m happy to do it."

Sherlock sighs. "Thank you."

"I'm happy to do this for you and for John.

"And I thank you."

"But come on, stroke a boy's ego. You've enjoyed it just a bit," Victor says and Sherlock sees a glint in his eye and a smile that's almost undeniable.

Sherlock says nothing then Victor moves close to Sherlock, winds his hands into the Belstaff and encircles Sherlock’s waist. He leans up to plant a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock returns the kiss very chastely.

"You do like me. Don’t you?" At that Victor leans in, uses his teeth to tug away a bit of Sherlock's scarf from his neck and he attacks with teeth and tongue. Sherlock for a moment enjoys it, enjoys this man who wants him and freely shows it. Even if it's partly just a game. A show on display. A scene. He’s played his part in a scene before.

"You know," Victor says inching away just a bit so Sherlock and see him clearly. "Moriarty could have cameras in your bedroom too. And if we're really trying to make him think you care for me then me laying you down, fucking you, making you come screaming my name. Ya know it might do the trick."

"Would it?" Sherlock asks. He knows it sounds overly flirtatious, especially coupled with the smile on his face. It would say to anyone that he's smitten. Even he would be fooled....maybe.

"That it would," Victor says and then finds a home back in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "Let me take you home," he says and breathes into Sherlock's neck. "Let me," he says with a smile. "We'll walk to get Chinese food. Give them another crack at us. Of course we'll barely be able to walk so that might be a drawback but I'm willing to give it all a go."

Victor places delicate kisses up Sherlock's neck, jawline, and finally at the corner of his lips then he moves a scant few millimeters and slots his mouth over Sherlock's. And Sherlock moves into the palace as they kiss. He’s there but not there. Victor's been this way since they decided this plan was needed. That they'd convince anyone watching them that Sherlock had replaced John, thereby leaving John to be safe and placing Victor and Sherlock in the line of danger. A place they both agreed to be.

It was Mycroft who encouraged the flatmate decision but it was Victor who decided that he shouldn’t just be a flatmate rather a lover. And Sherlock had to agree people would place stock in that. He'd remove John as his pressure point. At least in public. It could work.

And Victor did want him. He knew it. A fine blush creeps over his cheeks when he thinks about it. A low hum settles within his chest. It feels different from John. He isn't sure what that means. He finds he's without a map or even a compass to guide him in this land of emotions and want. His silence goes on for a touch to long and he blinks back into existence.

Victor is smiling at him. Victor is handsome; Sherlock knows. Side-swept hair that is blowing in the wind as Victor smiles at him is almost calling out for Sherlock to smooth it back into place. There are stood outside a failed excursion to solve this and despite the chill, Sherlock's attire is keeping them warm.

"If I said more than anything I wanted to take you home and take you to bed. Tell you that you're fantastic, amazing, brilliant and kiss you all over," Victor gets closer. "Would you let me?"

Sherlock cannot form an answer at first, most of him assumes the answer to be no. The part of him that should automatically respond to this stimuli seems to be indicating there isn't much interest here.  But there is something, a need, not quite an itch but a desire to be touched and kissed, a pale version of what he truly wants with John , but isn't that always the way?

Sherlock's answer is on his lips even when he is actually saved by the bell. The chime of his phone's text alert rings. Victor retreats just a touch to allow Sherlock the space to retrieve the phone. He reads quickly.

 

_**Lestrade missing. -Donovan** _

 

He relinquishes the hold Victor has on him with a quick step to the car. At first he heads to the driver's seat then realizes he can be more helpful looking over the evidence and sending out feelers from the passenger seat.

 

"Lestrade is missing," Sherlock says. "Drive 30 kilometers north. There is a weapons factory where was supposed to be. Don't talk. I have work to do."

Victor to his credit doesn't say anything. He gets in and once Sherlock is in his seat he hits the gas and they're off.

Sherlock isn't sure why they even called him. He probably found nothing then decided to get a drink.

He sends a text off to Donovan.

 

_**Evidence.Photos. Quickly. -SH** _

 

She responds within seconds with

 

_**Nothing to send. -Donovan** _

 

Sherlock doesn't have time to deal with their ineptitude. Of course there is evidence there. They're just too dumb to see. it.

He thinks about sending her a message that says just that when he thinks better of it. Instead he calls in a favour to Dimmock and asks him to get to the scene and send him anything he can. He might not find anything more than Donovan but at the least it might annoy and spurn her and her people into giving more than their bare minimum. Of course it does't matter. He'll find him within moments. He's sure of it.

"Morons," Sherlock says. "The evidence has to be there."

Victor says nothing and Sherlock takes note of this. Even though he's following Sherlock's instructions it still bothers him. John, of course, would have something to say right now.

"Drive faster," Sherlock says and goes back to his phone. He doesn't per se have a network that reaches out this far but surely some CCTV exists out here. So he sends a text to his brother informing him to have his people pull the data for the last 3 hours. Basingsoke is about an hours drive with sirens wailing so he should've been there and back by now. Sherlock doesn't have time for self-flagellation but he knows if he'd been more focused then he would've known earlier that something was wrong.

 

It doesn't matter, he tells himself. He'll probably find 29 clues before stepping out of the car. Lestrade will be back and laughing about it all within a few hours. Donovan isn't an idiot, part of him protests,  but another reminds him of the many, many times she missed easy answers and so he leans into that reasoning more than the pointless worry of other thought processes fighting to come to the forefront of his mind.

When he gets to the area where Lestrade should have been, the cemetery, he finds a gaggle of officers, sirens whirling, Donovan directing people to fan out and search again and outside of that nothing.

He steps out of the car and takes a walk to the grave where Moriarty was buried, sees Donovan standing on the grave and giving no respect to the possibly not-dead and he inwardly smirks and does just the same.

"What do you have for me?"

"I told you. Nothing."

"Nothing? What do you mean nothing?"

"Have a look yourself. Nothing. He never reached here. It was him and another officer Chesterton. And they never got here. I was in the car behind him and stopped to get him a coffee and when I got here, he wasn't. I was behind him most of the way and then. I don't know."

"Chesterton?"

"New officer. He's good."

"The fact that you're sleeping with him isn't biasing your opinion?"

"Fuck you, freak. Don't you dare. My CO and friend is missing. The fact that a guy I fucked once is also involved isn't clouding my judgment."

Sherlock steps back and looks over her. She's right. It isn't. Say what you want about Sally Donovan, he thinks. She is here to get the job done.

"Apologies."

Donovan's eyes flash for a moment and she gives a curt nod. Back to business for both of them.

"So what do you see?" she asks. He looks around. And around. And he begins pacing, looking for something here. But there is nothing.

 

"There must be something," he says and it seems Victor , who has joined him, responds with some pointless encouragement that he'll figure it out. Of course he will.

He walks the entire area and then he's out of the cemetery at the gate and there is nothing. Also no CCTV. He pulls out his phone for the response from his brother. A message reads _**"No data to report. MH"**_

He growls in frustration and walks around the entire grounds again.

 

"Something," he says. "Of course there must be."

Sherlock walks to the corner grave where Moriarty's body should have been and he takes out his magnifying glass. He will catalog every millimeter , every space until he finds something.

He distantly hears Victor calling his name but not now. Now he has to fix this mistake before, before.

It seems like minutes go by and he's only had time to search one square foot of the place and it's impossible. He closes his eyes for a minute to try to catalog. There is something he missed. He missed something. He had to have missed something. Why take Lestrade? Why take him and what was here? It was supposed to be nothing really. A meandering clue in the eternal puzzle that Jim Moriarty laid out for him in this intolerable game. But he missed something. Always something. And this time his friend would die because of it. No, no. He shakes his head. Ignores that. He closes his eyes tighter and he feels almost weightless , like he's not standing anymore. He'll sit for a minute. That's fine. There is motion and movement and it doesn't matter. He is thinking of the note and the game and the piece he missed. It's dark. Somehow it's dark, but he's only been here a minute. Perhaps an eclipse.

"Sherlock?"

He hears Mycroft's voice and he isn't sure how or why Mycroft is here. Then he opens his eyes and blinks. It's so dark. And he's not there at the cemetery any longer. He sees Mycroft looking at him with pity in his eyes and Sherlock simply has to turn away. He can't stand it. He says nothing. He doesn't want Mycroft here right now to witness this. Just leave him be because he missed something and he has to figure it out.

Something.

Something.

He hears Victor ask if he'll be okay and Mycroft says nothing. Victor asks to stay with him. Please say no, Sherlock thinks. Just not now. Not anyone. No one can help. He has to find it.

Something.

Something.

What did he miss?

Mycroft tells Victor his services won't be needed. Victor apparently leaves but gives Mycroft something first. Sherlock doesn't know what. It doesn't matter.

Something.

Something.

Sherlock is sat in a chair near a window and there is nothing to see. Mycroft's home is behind large walls and the grounds are manicured so that not even one stray blade of grass stand taller than the rest. Nothing of out place. Nothing to see in the dark light.

Something.

Something.

Mycroft is speaking to him. He can't make it out. Doesn't have the time or energy to focus on it.

"We will find Gregory, Sherlock" he hears his brother say and he hates him for saying that. There is no we. He'll do it. He'll figure it out. He'll find it.

Something.

Something.

Mycroft leaves finally. Finally. Now Sherlock can focus because there has to be, in the middle of everything this can't happen, he knows he missed many things, he missed the fact that of the three people Moriarty threatened previously he only sought to protect two of them. He should have had Lestrade under protection. He missed that there would be something there at the cemetery. Of course there would be something. He missed any clues left behind.

Just give him time to focus. He'll find it. He WILL see the clues. There is something.

Something.

Something.

Something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Thanks to everyone for reading. You're all my beta readers as I plan to do a final edit once I finish the piece so thanks for reading while I figure this whole thing out. Thank you so much. Next update should ( hopefully) be in the next day or so.


	12. Chapter Twelve

There is warm fire burning in the fire place and 221B has never felt more welcoming. Sherlock can smell the cakes and cookies Mrs. Hudson is baking below.  Dressed in his favorite blue dressing gown, he sits in his chair silently plucking a pizzicato on his violin. John will be home soon. Won't he? What time is it?

"Naw, he won't. Well not the real John anyway," Lestrade says.

"How?" Sherlock begins to asks and then he remembers. He remembers what lead them to this. Poor replication and really piss poor guidance. The real one couldn't help him and this version won't be much help either.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Lestrade asks.

"Obviously I do. You have access to everything I know," Sherlock says.

"I hated you."

" _I_ think you hated me."

"You were disgusting."

" _I_ thought I was disgusting."

"Are you going to let me finish?"

Sherlock takes a hand off his violin and waves it in acquiesce.

"And 'course as I'm dragging you into the back of my car, you're covered in puke and explaining to me why I've jailed the wrong man for my case and on top  of that you tell me my wife is cheating on me. God I hated you."

"I gave you good reason. But I was right."

"You were at that. About everything. I hated you but I knew you were something special."

"You were there on Mycroft's command and you tolerated me because I helped you."

"Maybe at first. Maybe. So."

"So? So what?"

"I'm here for a reason. Help you find what you missed. Not sure how I can."

"You present an alternate view of things."

"Not sure how I can but alright. So it was a trap to catch me."

"Illogical. Why for you?"

"Well maybe it was a trap for you or me. Who knows. So he sends the clue and waits for you to solve it right? Best case scenario he gets you. Worst case he gets to kill me, proves a point to you."

"You're not dead yet."

"It's possible. You gotta admit. He doesn't need me alive does he? It's not like he needs the bargaining chip. I'm prolly rotting right now."

"The human body doesn't truly start to decay until 72 hours. Rigor mortis doesn't even begin to set in until at least 3-5 hours after death.  Also you're not dead."

"If I'm not here to get you to come to terms with that then what am I here for?"

"To go over things."

"What things haven't you gone over in the past few days?"

"It's not been days. Has it?"

"Three."

"So that means..."

"Chance of finding decreased dramatically. What’s the statistics on that again? Finding someone within 48 is near a miracle. Add in Moriarty and the timeline goes to shit. If he wants you dead then you're dead. That's what he did to me."

"You're not dead!" Sherlock's face is flushed red as he shouts. His violin clatters to the floor. It doesn't matter as it's not real, still he picks it up gently and places it in its case. He then sits back in his chair and steeples his hands and resumes thinking.

The Lestrade in his mind palace now has a cup of tea that came out of thin air. Sherlock's mind palace is far more hospitable than he'd be if Lestrade were actually here. Lestrade gulps it down and then says 'ahh' as if he's enjoying it. Pointless addition, Sherlock knows, and yet he lets him do it again. 

"Steady," Lestrade says continuing their conversation after another sip of tea.  "I know you don't stick to most social cues, Sherlock. But yelling at the dead just isn't on."

Sherlock ignores him this time. Lestrade continues. "So what lead me here you think? I found the case and brought it to you. Not the other way round."

"You found the case?"

"That's what I said the first time we talked innit? Somethin' was off. Had a feeling."

"But a woman missing from an elderly residential home? Not really your division. Someone had to put that case in your way. Somehow."

"Hmm. You might be on to something."

"So he puts the case in your way. Tampers with the video enough to make it obvious."

"Oy! It wasn't obvious to me."

"You had a 'feeling' so obvious. You didn't connect the dots fully because you're an idiot."

"You're really awful at this respecting the dead thing. Anyway so he kidnaps just some old lady? What about the painting?"

"We didn't date it but if we did it's possible it's not even a few months old. The old lady could be no one."

"You said the song meant something."

"It was four notes. I filled in the blanks. Incorrectly perhaps or perhaps he had someone train her. Wouldn't take much. I once trained John to crave Chinese food whenever I said a certain word."

"You're dead proud of that fact aren't you."

"Not at all."

"You're bragging to yourself, Sherlock."

"Noted," Sherlock says. "So he trained her. Taught her a simple tune that would lead us to him and then he killed her."

"Sounds like something a nutter like Moriarty would do."

"He's not a nutter."

"You obviously think he is."

"So," Sherlock continues. "He wanted to lure you there for what?"

"To kill me."

"He could've," Sherlock pauses at the idea. He is mentally fighting his logic that sits here in the form of Lestrade. "He could do that anywhere. A sniper. Why there? Why then? Why you?"

"All good questions," Lestrade of the memory palace says. "What's the answer to any of them?"

"I don't know. That's the point. I don't know."

"So you sit here. You've not eaten in the past few days. Even your brothers worried about you."

"Mycroft doesn't worry about anyone."

"We both know that isn't true. Deeper creases around the eyes. Lips pursed just a touch too tight. And he's not once mentioned your failure to predict this." Lestrade pauses and looks at Sherlock who doesn't meet his eyes. "So I'm dead, you're not eating, worrying your brother. Is John okay? Is Mrs. H? Is Moriarty planning to take them next? Kill everyone?"

"No, I don't think," Sherlock pauses. "John...," Sherlock says. Speaking the word reverberates through his chest and his throat almost aches with the one-time use.

"You could ask for him you know. I tried to tell you that I thought you two needed each other. Remember my last words before I died?"

Sherlock pointedly ignores the last part. "Yes."

"So ask for him. Mycroft'll bring him 'round."

"He won't. I lose focus when John's around.  He thinks John is a distraction."

"He bloody well is! And that's a good thing. You need someone to stop you sometimes or else you go round and round trying to figure out that one thing you missed." Lestrade takes a sip of tea. Sherlock stares at this pointless pause. "Then you go a bit barkers and don't eat for three days. Spend your time with a mind palace version of your deceased friends."

"You're not," Sherlock pauses. "I'm not saying it anymore."

"Because you know better. So he could've killed me at anytime right? He lead me there for a reason. Not a bargaining chip. So he played nurse Jim, found a nice old lady. He taught her the song. AEDA. Lead me down the path. You noticed when you were in Russia. You noticed the notes first off."

"Right," Sherlock says and doesn't mention the bleeding of knowledge from himself to this version of Lestrade who didn't know about Jim's real name.

"You're missing something."

Sherlock rolls his eyes both in the mind palace and on his actual face because it's so idiotic. "Obviously. I believe I have said that a few times."

"So how do you fix it? How do you avenge my death?"

"I'm not sure."

"Tell you what though. You're not going to do it sat up here. Mycroft's men won't handle it. No one will but you. Weight is on you, mate."

"That's really not helping."

"Well this is the part of you that wants you to feel the pressure. Perhaps you think it will spurn you to action. Is it working?"

"Nope," Sherlock says and pops the "p" in the word.

"Why don't you call John in then?"

"I told you. Mycroft won't allow it."

"I mean in here. I'm sure you've got a few versions of him running around for various....things." Lestrade says this along with an eyebrow raise and a smirk the size of England on his face.

Sherlock ignores Lestrade or himself and realizes this is new levels of insanity.

Lestrade continues, "Well I'm obviously not helping. So I best be on my way."

"Fine, " Sherlock says and waves a hand.

"But before I leave I just wanted to tell you that you are a good man, Sherlock. A good man and I will miss you and it's fine that I'm dead. I had a decent life and I got to know some good people and hopefully I did some good so it's fine."

"This is just," Sherlock shakes his head. He stands up and goes to the 221B window in his mind palace.  He replays that moment again. Below the window there is always a clear street and only randomly does he see a passerby. The same one. He can never see the face just the bag in their hand which appears to have come from the bookstore around the corner. He could never figure out what kind of book was in the bag and so it's an ongoing mystery that's amusing to wile away time with. "This is just," Sherlock repeats. "My mind giving me an out and I don't want an out. I don't _need_ an out. You're alive. I'll find you." Sherlock turns around and Lestrade is not there. He doesn't have all the evidence.  He knows this. And he knows it's impossible to truly know.  But still in his mind he pencils in the date of Detective Inspector Gregory Tobias Lestrade's death.

 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

 

 

On the fourth day Mycroft enters Sherlock's room again. He brings Sherlock food that he won't eat and newspapers that he is unlikely to read. A thin folder is sat under the food tray brought the day before-- the current set of information surrounding Detective Inspector Lestrade's disappearance. It's not much information but the hope is that it will spurn some reaction. Mycroft himself took the time away to do the leg work, expecting to once again find information where so many others missed. There was nothing. He had his team work to find angles from cctv, but they too found nothing of use. Yesterday in passing Sherlock's room he heard him say just one word.  Mycroft is aware that it's an option but it has to be the last option. 

 

When Mycroft saw him looking like the young man he is and not like the unnerved detective who tries to feign his boredom with the world,  he feared for the first time in years. He let a moment of worry cross his face. Yes, Sherlock seemed to be lost.  But Sherlock has suffered loss before. Redbeard of course.  A young boy, confused and alone without his pet, without the one thing that made him truly a child. But this was worse and Mycroft couldn't truly say why. Sherlock has made mistakes before and ignored them before he easily moving on to logical solutions.  In the past Sherlock would simply try the next option until resolution. But he knows Sherlock has changed.

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes at himself ,at the fact that of course when one thing is removed then you find your answer to the what has caused the deviation. He walks into Sherlock's room and sits in a chair. Sherlock is in bed asleep or perhaps still in the infernal mind palace , regardless there is no reaction.

 

Mycroft sighs and retrieves his phone, sends out instructions, necessary items.  He sighs again. Hoping perhaps it will annoy Sherlock into responding but nothing. Necessary evolution post previous failure. He could try other options but he knows they would result in nothing. And it would be utterly wasteful, pointless. 

 

There is really no alternative, unsavory as the option is, to give Sherlock his drug. His addiction makes him better but also worse.

 

Should he send Victor to retrieve? Possibly. Or himself? No. He can't be away further. And really it's not something he wants to have anything to do with. Anthea will retrieve both items, take responsible for delivery. He trusts her with this and she will be aware to never bring this up again.

 

He sighs a third time. Anything? He looks to Sherlock's bed. Nothing. absolutely nothing....

 

He sends a final text to Anthea.  **Bring necessary items to facilitate matters. MH**  

 

She does not reply with a confirmation. She doesn't have to. He knows she will ensure the task's completion.

 

****

 

Sherlock hears the door open again and again. Mycroft and his interminable parade to try to "snap him out of it." But he _is_ out of it and that is no help. He even looked over the evidence that Mycroft brought. Photographs that Victor took that day. Also photographs that appears Mycroft took as well, meaning Mycroft did leg work and if he saw nothing then there is  truly nothing to see. It's hopeless and pathetic and Sherlock doesn't want to hear the news that he made a deadly mistake again. 

 

He also doesn't want to _relive_  his mistakes and yet they keep playing over and over in his head. All the times when he was so sure and he turned out to be completely wrong.  If the evidence isn't giving him different information then perhaps it is the way he came to the decision. The deduction, the theory, something was wrong, off and therefore the final conclusion had no hope with insurmountable odds of a poor foundation.

 

He goes back to the mistakes he made when he was younger. Each of those mistakes were not life altering. Well only a few meant something. But the mistakes are easily seen--youth and misunderstanding.  Right now Carl Powers' murder would not be something he missed. Inexperience has been overcome with time and understanding of others.  Then he thinks of other times when he is older, in college. He lets the memories flit through his mind. Mostly knowledge, few interactions. Were there mistakes? No. None that mattered. _Some_ would call his addiction to narcotics a mistake but the truth of the matter is that it was necessary. It is true at times he indulged greater than he should, but he always stopped himself. He always brought himself back from the brink. That is until a few mistakes with dosage and with trusting the parties who made them. But he should've seen.  Then Lestrade was there to help him the final time.

 

He hears Mycroft enter again and sigh. At least that is all he is doing. Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't say a thing. Mycroft sits. Sherlock keeps his breathing even so it would appear that he's still sleeping. Either Mycroft doesn't notice or he refuses to say, Sherlock favors the latter. He'll take this small mercy. 

 

A part of him wants to yell or at least mention again how truly pathetic this situation is and yet he isn't sure what to do. It's only the fact that he's already indulged in this ad nauseum which stops him. This is textbook. He knows. He's aware.  Knowing how textbook this is, knowing that this is absolutely ordinary and boring does nothing to move him forward. It's boring here and, he admits it, a bit painful, confusing.

 

All the mistakes he's made continue to dance before him. Mistake, mistake, mistake. Key difference. What? What? He knows. He won't say. Because it's something he can't change now. So he's stuck, trapped.

 

Mycroft sighs again and then extracts something from his pocket. Phone. Typing something. An update to their parents perhaps? Confirming the Israeli parliament elections continue regardless of the bomb threats?

 

It doesn't matter. None of it does.  Finally Mycroft receives some confirmation or he's called away. Doesn't matter which. He's gone. Sherlock is alone. What time is it? It's mid-day. The curtains are drawn but somewhere in the mind palace his internal clock ticks on, unceasing. A reminder to himself how much further away he's gotten from being able to fix yet another mistake. Mid-afternoon. He feels weak and knows he should eat. With Mycroft gone he decides to chance it. Preservation is necessary. He's aware. He unfolds himself from the covers, the bed, the warmth of his cocoon of seclusion. He looks around slowly, letting his nose sniff out the location of the tray and he sees in the far off corner of the room. His eyes rove over everything and for the first time he sees the room for what it is.  It's his very own padded cell. He's been here before, after his last stint in rehab. There was never a question of whether Sherlock would hurt himself but Mycroft feared any stimuli. 

 

There's boring walls, two plush chairs, a desk and book shelf with only old encyclopedias lining the shelves.  The small desk holds the tray and the toast Sherlock has sniffed along with three kinds of jam. He swings his feet off the bed and lets his toes touch the floor. The carpet feels odd beneath his feet. He's relieved himself at least once in the past few days so he's definitely stood on it but this is the first time he can recall being aware of its feel as compared to only being in the background of his autopilot. 

 

Sherlock walks slowly and steady to the desk , picks up a piece of toast. He adds a bit of butter and jam, spreads them both evenly across the slice of bread ,tastes. It's bland in his mouth but at the same time it's delicious and brilliant. 

 

He wants to mock himself that having this piece of bread is his first step in recovery but then that would be admitting to himself more things than he'd like. He drinks the tea then goes to the en suite lav to relieve himself. He glances at the shower and then very oddly reaches out a hand towards it, finds himself stripping , letting the clothes he's had on for days fall to the floor. He tests the water only for a second before stepping in and letting the water hit him and cascade down his body. He closes his eyes, lets his head fall forward, lets the water fall over his head, drenching his hair, travel down his body.  He glanced quickly earlier, his preferred shampoo and products were stocked.  So he reaches absentmindedly for the  bottle and finds it, squeezes out just a bit and massages it into his hair, reaches for a bar of soap and soaps up his body and it feels good to be cleaner, to be cleaning himself.  

 

It could be any other day where he's woken up in need of a shower and he hadn't caused the death of one of his only friends.  He throws the thought away for the moment, goes back to the shower, the water is, he hates to say it, quenching, it feels good and freeing and is full of renewal.  Building block of life and he feels it. A variety of poems and quotes about the refreshing, renewing water float through his mind but he doesn't focus on one or , more accurately, focuses on many and lets them all remind him that this is acceptable, healing, normal. Recovery.

 

He isn't sure what to do next once he gets out. It's all well and good to clean oneself but he still hasn't figured out how to fix his mistake or even how he once again let himself be lead down this path. So he stays in the shower for much longer than any normal person should, the water doesn't go cold though, small mercy. Finally after 38 minutes he turns off the water, stands for a moment dripping dry then steps out, reaches for a towel. He doesn't want to heave a sigh but somehow one comes out of him and he then he holds his breath for a second until it hurts his lungs. Finally he breathes out hard, stills himself.  He can't fix this on his own. Not here like this. If Lestrade is dead then he has to find who took him. He has to make it safe for John and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. He has to end this game once and for all. He'll go to Mycroft for strategy, he'll use all his resources and fix this and then perhaps disappear after. Never to be seen again by anyone he cares for. He won't let this happen again. Most importantly he'll get out of this room. This is done. This mourning is done. 

 

Sherlock takes a towel to his hair and begins to dry it. He walks out of the bathroom , fully nude drying his hair and is heading towards the bed when he hears a small knock at the door and then it opens. He is not worried about anyone seeing him nude, awkwardness isn't a factor. But then the door cracks open and it is his brother. It's not worth the pointless shock  so he quickly wraps a towel around his lower body. Mycroft stares at him, is probably sizing him up. It doesn't matter. He doesn't say anything, simply hands him a small bag, shoves it toward him really, like it's a bomb that's about to go off.  Sherlock takes it, says nothing. Mycroft says nothing in return then leaves, closing the door behind him. 

 

Sherlock is about to peak into the small bag when there is another knock and the door opens.  His eyes automatically turn skyward to roll at the idea of Mycroft returning to say something else then he sees John step inside, past the door. Mycroft is just behind him, he shoots Sherlock a very pointed look that says far more than words could convey in such a quick time. _I will be taking my leave, I brought him for you, and I apologize._ Sherlock's eyebrows knit together in confusion, his brain working double time to confirm he is truly reading that last statement correctly when Mycroft gives him a small nod confirming it. Mycroft's hand takes the door's handle and closes it leaving John inside.

 

Suddenly Sherlock realizes he is desperately under-dressed for this ...whatever it is. John, on the the other hand is dressed well. Elements of his dress seem to note something.  The fact that he has his collar turned up, his hair is styled, his lips are not chapped but look red.  Sherlock realizes John's been biting at them since the drive over in the car.  Mycroft must have summoned him here. Did John know that he was being brought here to see Sherlock? Or did John demand to see him. Sherlock can't tell and doesn't want to figure it out, for once he wants John to tell him the story.

 

There are a thousand words sitting on the tip of Sherlock's tongue but what to say?

 

****

 

There are a thousand words sitting in John's mouth. There are things to say.  He's here. Finally here but with so many things to say he can't figure out how to speak any of them. So much has changed and John isn't sure exactly what remains true between them.

 

***

 

Sherlock is unsure what to do next. He stands there in his towel from the shower, holding a small bag that his brother handed him and John is there. John is there in front of him and he isn't sure what he's supposed to say. Really it should be John's responsibility  to say something as Sherlock himself has just gotten over a rather pathetic psychotic break, Sherlock thinks.

 

***

John looks up at Sherlock. He doesn't want to hear what Sherlock has to say, even if that was the whole reason of him coming here.  It doesn't matter that he wants explanations and answers and declarations. It doesn't matter anymore. John reaches out a hand and settles on Sherlock's shoulder. His fingers curl and hold. The bag Sherlock is holding drops from his grip.

 

***

 

When John's fingers hold onto Sherlock he stills, he didn't realize he was moving before but he was. Something vibrating inside of him, something trying to move around and see, find space and scream.  When John's hand touches him he stills all that. John then lifts his other arm and the intent is clear. Sherlock leans forward as John steps forward as well.  Then John ushers him forward more, he holds him, hugs him. The slot into each other, Sherlock bending down, and John tilting up a bit. It's not a practiced or familiar routine. They've done this so rarely, really only twice. Once in Baskerville and then at John's wedding, but somehow they both know where to go, how to fit together. John's face is buried in Sherlock's neck. Sherlock  is bent low, in a mirror position with John's neck as his home base.

 

*** 

This isn't something they do. They don't hug.  Not when they haven't seen each other after one pretends to be dead for two years, not when they've almost died after chasing down a thug who pulled a gun and then another gun Sherlock didn't deduce, not ever. John counts twice in his head. 

 

The first was the morning as they were leaving Baskerville. Sherlock had went to see a man about a dog. John packed away their luggage into the truck and as he closed the hitch, Sherlock stood near him, very near him. John backed up for a minute, stared at him, wasn't sure what he was playing at, then Sherlock took an awkward step forward with his arms out. It took John a second to realize what he wanted and then he stepped forward and hugged him. Held him close and thought about how he'd been worried about Sherlock for the first time since they met, how Sherlock's apology was probably the first he'd ever heard him honestly make, how when John was terrified out of his mind in that cage he'd only wanted to get out and do this. 

 

So he hugged him back, then at his wedding, which he doesn't want to think about but no, he will think about it, because then it was similar to this, overwhelmed and full of emotion so much that he couldn't stop himself then.

 

And he can't stop himself now either so he holds Sherlock, holds him close, buries his face in his neck because he wanted to and he finally could. He was here in the same room, not a country away, not talking over the phone or desperately trying for a few more moments, he was here. 

 

***

 

Sherlock was sure that an embrace should end quickly, especially between male friends, even when Lestrade had hugged him after his return the embrace lasted only 14.4 seconds. But they'd gone into the minutes territory and John was holding him tight and didn't seem to be ending the embrace any time soon. Then Sherlock felt John shake. Sherlock pulled back and looked at John who looked up at Sherlock with eyes that went wide only for a second before they crinkled as John continued to laugh and laugh. And Sherlock smiled wide, he couldn't quite find laughter bubbling up within him but he found joy in this moment. He moved to take a step back just to take John all in but John shot a hand out to Sherlock's shoulders, held firm and pulled Sherlock close again. The laughter subsided and Sherlock melted into the touch. Eyes drifting shut, face burying in John's neck, and it felt like home, beyond everything and everyone, this felt like home and hope and life. 

 

***

 

Sherlock was melting into the hug. He was present. The laughter John felt was perfect. A damn breaking, yes, but also the first building blocks of something. Life? He gripped Sherlock's arm tighter, a hold, a connection, a need met. Nothing else really mattered right now, the fact of the matter was this was where he needed to be, who he needed to be with, who he wanted, what he wanted, it was the answer to all the questions and doubt was no longer an option because how do you question this? How do you question how at peace John felt when at the same time felt like he was about to explode like a shooting star that streaked across the sky and dammit he must be in love with Sherlock because he hasn't wrote poetry that bad in years. This, this _this_ is it.

 

***

Sherlock is startlingly aware that neither of them has said a word to each other. And though they've often had moments of silence, right now it seems like a time when they need to discuss many a thing. They need to finally communicate after years of half-spoken truths, and ignored conversations.  And though there are words he could be speaking right now, the touch of John's fingers grasping him seems to be his declaration, and Sherlock wants to answer. So he nuzzles further into John's neck, breathes him in, sighs in contentment. Because right now everything has slowed and focused on this and nothing else.  Sherlock thinks it's very possible that he could happily spend a lifetime here, held and touched by one John Hamish Watson. He is settled here, dreamily thinking when he feels John's head turn towards him, their cheeks brush next to each other, and he feels John harsh exhale of breath on his neck, it warms him greatly. John's moves closer, his nose nuzzling Sherlock's neck, Sherlock hears John breathe him in and the mere thought makes Sherlock want to whimper but he doesn't.  It's far too tenuous, far too close to close to something real for Sherlock to chance any wrong sound, any wrong move. He wants this so much more than he realized before and he doesn't want to admit it but he is feeling fear, terror creeps up his neck and settles in even as John nuzzles in closer. He pulls back to say something, to try to speed up the inevitable end or the confirmation of dismissal.

 

***

Sherlock pulls back from the hold and John's eyes close for a moment, shut tight , just for a few moments because he doesn't want to open them and see Sherlock sneer at John's desire, at John's want for him, come far too late when Sherlock had decided to move on to someone who didn't need to travel so far to realize what was perfectly standing right in front of them,  someone who didn't take forever to get here. And if only, if only he had just simply decided years ago , so many chances, not just the first dinner at Angelo's, not just the many nights spent in together on the couch, so close yet so far away, opportunities wasted because of fear. 

 

But then he realizes that it doesn't matter. He'll convince Sherlock, he'll do the hard work, he'll fuckin stake his claim because Sherlock and him. It's them.

 

He opens eyes and Sherlock is looking at him with pinched eyebrows, a worried mouth and eyes set with confusion and doubt. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and John shakes his head no. Sherlock's mouth snaps shut.  John's left hand moves from the hold on Sherlock's arm to Sherlock's face. His hand is moving in a slow caress, with his thumb moving in a small outline over Sherlock's lips.

 

***

 

Sherlock's eyes drift shut as John's thumb travels over his lips and he is and isn't an idiot because he very much understands what this means , but he's been wrong, he's been wrong so many times and so often lately.  This could be just another mistake. Except...maybe.  The times he's been wrong--with Moriarty, with Magnussen, with...Mary, every time he's missed something it's because he's not listened, he's not asked the one person who always conducts the light to shine on the exact right spot. His eyes drift open in question and he knows immediately the answer.  His hand comes up to place gently on the back of John's hand. John's thumb stills and he looks up to meet Sherlock's eyes. John smiles. He smiles ever so lightly, so full of wonder. Then and only then does Sherlock decide. He moves forward.

 

***

 

Sherlock is moving forward and John decides that in this it will not be Sherlock going and John following, in this John will meet him and they will decide together. John 's hand on Sherlock's face no longer caresses but instead moves to the back of Sherlock's head and moves him closer, John tilts his face up, closes his eyes.

 

***

 

Sherlock's lips find John's. John's lips find Sherlock's. There is no pitch of gentleness in this kiss, it is a search , questing for more and more, Sherlock does not lick into John's much as much as he thrusts his tongue forward. John does the same and they seem to be enveloping each other, John caught up in the fact that he is finally kissing  the man, _THE MAN_ , he loves and he misses the fact that Sherlock's hands are travelling over his body. John then does too and he is definitely at an advantage. So much skin for John to touch and he wants to travel over every uncharted area, so he does. His hands moves over Sherlock's back and he feels, touches, caresses. He can feel small scars that he knows were not there before and so he flattens his hand, presses Sherlock closer, feeling the need to apologize with a touch of his hand, with a gentle caress followed by a firm grasp to show hunger, devotion, regret, desire and love. So much fuckin love. 

 

John hands go to the towel and the small tie Sherlock's made to hold it in place. He doesn't think. He knows he  wants and he wants to see how much Sherlock wants. A gentle tug undoes the towel's hold and it falls. John doesn't waste much time on taking in the sight because he's actually seen it before. But this time it's flushed and leaking with precome for him and if it's up to him then he'll have time to see it many times after, so quickly his hand takes hold, smears back the precome , using it as a bit of lubricant and he strokes.  

 

Sherlock ,who was happily invading his mouth with kisses, falters for a second, his tongue goes still and then he backs off completely. John stares up at him. Sherlock's eyes are half-lidded with lust, his mouth open around a held-in moan. John strokes again and again and Sherlock is thinking the tight, brutal hold is absolutely glorious,so different from his touch, so different from dark nights and shame and confusion. It is everything. 

 

John doesn't let up but takes advantage of Sherlock's stillness to move forward. His lips go to Sherlock's chest and he licks a nipple. John isn't sure that it will do anything to Sherlock but he absolutely can't not touch and caress Sherlock in every way he can.  When John takes the first nipple into his mouth, Sherlock's hands  move to John's arms and hold , trying to keep himself stood upright. But it's not enough and the dual onslaught of John Watson stroking him and caressing his chest is more than he can take, his knees begins to buckle. Sherlock is happy to drag them down to the floor but John seems to have other plans, he takes his hand off Sherlock's shaft and his mouth off Sherlock's peaked nipple and walks them both back to the bed. 

 

Sherlock falls back first and crawls up the bed then he looks at John almost disappointed. John is about to assure Sherlock they are not done when he realizes the disappointment is with the fact that John is still fully clothed. He takes off jacket, jumper, jeans, pants, shoes, socks, everything in record time and  climbs onto the bed. He crawls forward on to Sherlock and doesn't waste time resuming every touch from earlier. His mouth moves first to nip at Sherlock's jawline and then travels to the wonderful expanse of Sherlock's neck. 

 

He nips, he licks, he out and out bites. Then he finally sucks. He lets every desired touch for Sherlock's neck come to the forefront and God what a beautiful sight. His hand travels back to Sherlock's shaft, more pre-come leaks out and John puts it to good use, using it as he travels lower to cup and caress Sherlock's balls. It's something he's always loved from women and he can't imagine anyone wouldn't enjoy it. Sherlock _does_ seem to enjoy it as John hears him gasp loudly above and then it seems he's struggling with himself to hold a moan in. John will not allow that any further so he caresses again and travels his hand back up to stroke Sherlock again. 

 

Sherlock finally is able to move again from the onslaught of John touching him and he wants to touch so much, he reaches low and wraps his hand around John's shaft. John stills only for a moment before he continues stroking Sherlock in earnest. His mouth travels back up to Sherlock's mouth and they are kissing again, glorious kissing that Sherlock will never, ever tire of. His grip is barely there on John's shaft because he can't ignore the sensations of John touching him and wouldn't want to.  Everything in him is focused on John's touches but still he wants to make John feel at least half as good as John is making him feel. John ,who is so ample, so much more than him, wider and longer is moving in small thrusts into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's mouth waters at the idea that he could place his mouth on John, could feel the exact taste of him in his mouth, he is about to suggest this when John speeds up his strokes and Sherlock in turn does the same thing. 

 

God what a beautiful feeling, John thinks. He wants to do more, try more but all he wants right now is to feel and hear and see Sherlock coming and so he goes tighter, faster, loosens the hold only for a second so that the sensation will be felt that much more once he continues, and then he does. He takes it back to a brutal stroke that is meant to show Sherlock how much he wants and needs this. Sherlock is still holding John's cock loosely but it's enough as John thrusts forward into Sherlock's firm, large hands.  Then John is coming, coming hard. He is falling into the beautiful fuckin' feeling of finally coming and coming with Sherlock.  Then he hears Sherlock gasp and still, spurts of come drop into John's hand and John keeps stroking, loosens his grasp a bit. Sherlock's moan is throaty and loud and perfect.  He comes and comes and the orgasm takes over his body.

 

John's thrusts into Sherlock's hand is almost an after thought, gentle movements forward to wring out the last of him. Sherlock seems to have the same thought as fingers lightly curl around John until he hisses at the touch.  Sherlock drops his hand and simply tries to breathe. 

 

John is breathing heavy and fast, trying to calm himself because part of him can stand to go another round, part of him can't stop wanting to touch more, but mostly he wants to say it, finally say it.  

 

Their breathing fills the space, fills the room with the only and most important sound that either man has ever heard. 

 

John finally pulls back and looks at Sherlock who stares back as his chest heaves until his breath calms.

"Sherlock," John says. He says it with awe, says it with wonder. He says it with a shy grin on his face. There are questions and statements of intent in the way he says it, he can only will Sherlock to understand this.

Sherlock does. He does understand it. Because he answers with the only thing he could possibly say right now.

"John," Sherlock says, and he smiles.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! I'm uploading two chapters at once--14 and 15.  
> Goal is get the next chapter out tomorrow. It's already written, just trying to get to a final edit.  
> As always thank you so much for reading!

~One week ago~

Mary reaches into the bag and tosses the last of Vladimir Lianov's possessions onto the fire. It's the last of it. The last of him. Black, cashmere lined, and monogrammed in the corner with a small "M."

Despite their quality, to her they seem to burn faster than all his other clothes, and definitely faster than him. She leans back on the stolen car and watches them burn to the last corner which curls in on itself, the heat turns them to dark ash, to almost nothing.

She always hated those gloves. He only wore them while he was taking out a mark. Strangling each person until the last bit of life left them. And the bastard got off on it. And sometimes on the victim's themselves.

Moriarty gave them to Vlad as a gift for murdering the Sultan of Oman. He took pleasure in Vladimir recounting the stories to him in Russian. Though Vlad always dipped back into English when the victim was a woman, as if he wanted to ensure whoever was around could definitely hear it. Mary heard him too many times talk of either seducing a woman before he'd strangle her or doing unspeakable things after he'd killed them. Sick fuck.

Mary smirks and walks away. It's different. It is. She wishes she could explain it but only a rare person truly understands. To get that it's different when the person deserves this judgment.

She knows It doesn't solve anything. It doesn't fix anything to know he was the one who slipped the drugs into her drink which caused the early contractions. Still.

This is the last of her known contacts from that old life with Jim at the head. These people who lived in the shadows, faces always kept in secret, voices always disguised. The ones whose deaths she can use to send a message. You can't hide.

Either Jim will send someone to respond or he'll take her out. Regardless she's not taking any chances until she's ready. So she ditches the car she'd procured from behind that swish restaurant and quickly finds another. She doesn't use any of the resources Mycroft Holmes provided to her. She doesn't even check in with him. Besides if he really wanted to know what she was up to then surely he'd find her. She's appeared on CCTV just enough for him to use that as a status report.

She takes the longest of ways she can possible devise until it's obvious where she's going. There is always the possibility that someone else could be on her trail. But isn't that what she's after? Her stolen, beat-up blue VW beetle pulls into the driveway of the deceased and despicable Charles Augustus Magnussen. Mary tosses the keys on the seat and makes her way towards the house. There are a few signs on the door, all showing the home to be seized by order of her royal blah blah blah. She rips them down and aims a swift kick to the front door. The lock handle cracks just a bit. Fine. She aims another and another and another as her hair flies free and the sweat starts to accumulate on her brow. Finally the door opens and she enters.

Mary walks inside and through the foyer. It's quiet and if she were foolish enough to wear heels then their clacking would be echoing. For now all she hears is her steadying breath. She moves across the rooms and spares a glance for all the signs that show no one lives here. Not anymore.

The place hasn't changed since the last time she was here. When the bastard told her he'd take everything from her, that he'd ruin her if she didn't do what he said. He had come so close, inhaled her , grabbed her hair, and tried to intimidate her with a probing touch down her thigh.

And then he did exactly what he said he would. Even in his death, he did take everything she wanted from her. But she didn't let him touch her again, even after he said he would have her anyway he wanted. The bastard didn't get that.

She runs her fingers along the banister and walks up stairs in a rush.

Then she sees him sitting there, definitely not dead and definitely not surprised.

"You could've just knocked, Mary," he says and he adds the sound of four extra "a's" to her name. The lilt hasn't changed. The coy grin on his face is no different.

****

Janine sits on the floor in the corner. It's better in the corner, against the wall, no one behind her. She can pretend it's in her control. It's not. It's never been in her control. He was always there overseeing almost everything and now he can oversee absolutely everything. She looks up at the camera in the corner of her room. She's a pet now. Nothing more. She's come to accept this finally. So many years she tried to pretend but the reality has come crashing down in the form of a cage in....Is she even still in New York? She doesn't know.

She isn't the first person to be betrayed by family, hell she betrayed him first in a way. But there only are so many chances to do what's right and hell might as well have done it for a cute guy who is more dumb than he realizes.

When the doors of the elevator opened and she saw Aedan standing there it still didn't sink in that this was her end. She smiled and walked over to him with the tiniest of hope that he'd forgive her, say that she'd made the game more interesting.

And he smiled, fuckin smiled sweetly. Right before the man, woman, someone held her firm with a mask full of odorless fumes over her nose. She fought. She can say that firmly. She fought back. But as the world got darker she wondered if the last thing she'd see was this and she knew she should've decided to fight back a lot earlier, years earlier. That would've made all the difference. Hours later she woke up here in this room. Meals delivered three times a day. A bed. A bathroom. And a view of what appeared to be people walking below.

The glass seemed to have an odd tint to it , but she was so sure if she screamed loud enough then someone would see her, someone would help her. It wasn't until she was watching on the second day when she noticed there was really no view. There was no one walking past the window. Every 68th minute the people looped around again. It was all a recording, an illusion. Bet he fuckin loved when she realized it. Bet he loved to see her slump down on the floor and realize she was alone.

He always hated that she could make friends easy and now she would die completely alone. Still she watched the loop. The endless parade of nothing, of a reminder of what she'll never have day in and day out. People going about their lives. Knowing no one would come for her. She's never been able to count on anyone before this and now she has even less.

"I'm going to die here," she says aloud to absolutely fucking no one.

On day four she screams until someone comes to her room. She asks for her brother and is told he is not there via a handwritten note. A note in Aedan's handwriting. He knew she'd try this. He knew it enough to write the note before he traipsed off to kill Sherlock and John and God knows who else.

On the fifth day she devises a plan to escape, one way or the other. She'll break her loo, be taken out. She'll grab their gun, and she'll fight her way out. She doesn't sleep that night. She doesn't think about how tomorrow she'll most likely die. She doesn't think about the hand she was dealt or about all the times she could've made a different choice that wouldn't have landed her here.

Could she really have done it differently? As long as Aedan was out there was there ever really another option? Wasn't the entire family meant to die bloody deaths? Their dad did. Their cousin did on that roof three years ago after all that painful surgery. And now it's her turn.

She lets a tear or two or twenty shed. She doesn't want to die.

****

Mary's immediate reaction is to dart her eyes around to see who or what else could be here, but that's too much of a giveaway. So she takes small, measured steps forward and sits next to him on the couch. She angles her body turned towards him, reaches out a hand and strokes back a lock of his hair into place. She leans forward as if to give him a kiss. Jim turns his face away from her. Undeterred she plants a gentle kiss on his cheek.She leans back and tilts her head with a coy smile.

"Been a while, " she says.

"A lifetime," Moriarty replies then turns back to look at her, unhidden disgust plain on his face. "That mouth of yours. It's been busy."

"Those hands of yours have been too. What strings are you pulling these days?"

"Invisible ones my dear. Those allow the best illusions."

"So you're hiding," she says. It's exactly what it sounds like. A jab, a small one. He'll rise to it though. She knows he will.

"In plain sight," Moriarty says. "Just like you. What is it again? Mary?"

"You picked the name."

"I picked Mary Morstan. Not Mary Watson."

She says nothing. Nothing can be gained from responding here. She leans back on the couch.

Moriarty says nothing either. He stands however and offers his hand. She reaches up and places her hand gently in his. He does not follow her gentle cue and instead yanks her upward. Mary tumbles into his arms. He holds her momentarily then spins her out. He makes a turn and dips her down with care.

From a distance she can hear music playing along to the dance. She forces out a smile and plays along. In an instant he has her in his arms. He twirls her and then he holds her close, tight. To the point she almost can't breathe. She doesn't panic , rather lets her feet continue to move. This dance? She knows this dance. He does so enjoy to do it. So she waits. He'll say. She knows.

"So , Maaaary, I'm here. What is it that you wanted to say?" He lessens the grip just a bit.

Mary bites her lip, stays quiet.

"Oh Mary," he says and lets her free on a spin. She stops and takes deep breaths. He turns and walks away then looks back at her. "Were you planning to stay here tonight?"

"I was."

"Then feel free to do so. I simply came here to say hi, catch up, and of course say I will kill her." Jim smiles, of course he does. A look of serene peace seems to wash over his face as he continues. "I will kill her and sing a little song as she screams."

"You've already killed my daughter."

"No, not yet. Well okay fine, the spawn of you and John Watson or David whatever. Suppose you've ensured Vlad is dead for it?"

She nods her head.

"Pity. But your daughter. The one you thought I didn't know about. I will kill her. And her family. I will cut,I will cut off her pretty, little head and send it to you. Or do you want just the eyes first? I bet she has her mother's eyes."

"Jim, please..."

"Oh it's 'Jim' now? It's good ol' Jim is it? After you've been killing my men. After you FAILED YOUR MISSION!" His scream is almost piercing but she doesn't shy away from it.

" I couldn-I fell in love."

"Oh." Moriarty tilts his head, a small smile turns quickly into a huge grin and he laughs. "No, no you didn't."

"Jim."

"Did you really think that? That you loved being Maaary Watson? You were escaping who you are. No, no, no. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Don't buy your own cover, Mary."

She takes a breath. Doesn't try to fight him. He's wrong. She knows it. She tried. "What do you want?" she asks and doesn't look up at him, refuses to meet his eyes. She's back in this house again and once again she's another man's puppet. No matter what she does she can never just get away from it all.

"I'm bored. Bored as you were from the moment you met John Watson. The game is over. I'd like a nice end. Something fun, something bloody."

"What?"

"Complete your mission. Kill John Watson. I mean he's boinking that Sherlock Holmes these days. I heard a recording of those two. Oooo. Hot. Surely that's enough motivation to slit...his...throat."

Mary's eyes fall to the floor. There is screaming coming from somewhere. Or maybe it's just in her head.

"It's a suicide mission. I'd die trying."

"Oh please do. It'd give me something to tell your daughter before she takes her last breath." Moriarty takes a step forward and looks at her directly. "Kill John Watson. Add on Sherlock Holmes as partial repayment for all the trouble you've caused me lately and I'll let your daughter live another year."

"And then?"

"And then you'll only owe me a few favors. let's say one a year for ten years."

"The last man who tried to make me his bitch is dead."

"You're not just a bitch, Mary. You're a dog. Now go fetch." He takes a large bite at the air and grins. "Or...." He pulls out his phone and reads it. "Hannah is a bright, vivacious girl. Sooooo lovely. She excels in all her studies. She is in the gifted and talented program and is often seen as a leader on most school projects." Moriarty stops reading and looks up. "And I'll kill her slowly. Send you a body part every day until you play nicely. You have two days."

Moriarty turns, pockets his phone, and starts to walk away.

"That's not enough time to find them. He's been in and out of the country."

Moriarty stops, turns around, and sneers. "Call him then... Oh Sherlock! John's in danger. Let's go find him together."

"I need more time."

"A week then. And ,Bloody Mary, make it bloody... Mary. That's why I chose the name. Now live up to it."

Moriarty's slow walk to the door echoes in the large house and is only punctuated by the sound of a helicopter landing on the grass outside. Mary stands still and thinks. She tries to calm her breathing but panic gets the best of her and she moves from the spot she's been rooted on. She takes a small step toward him and a shot rings out. It hits the floor on the spot just in front of her. She looks down. It's centimeters from her shoe. A red dot appears just in front of her foot. She understands not move further.

"Seb?"

"No," Moriarty says and he flinches. There is something there but she isn't sure how much to push. So she tries for something else.

"Janine?"

"Janine has been a very baaaad girl. Took away my toy. So the pretty princess has to go to her tower."

Mary nods. "If you want this within a week then I'll need her. Holmes trusts her."

Moriarty takes a breath, closes his eyes. He leans his head back as if he's sunning himself on the beach, soaking up the heavenly rays. But Mary knows he's weighing the pros and cons of it. He's 20 steps ahead in his mind and guessing at her motives and options. But as she doesn't know half them herself she doesn't know what he'll find. She just knows that saving Janine is the right thing to do.

"She's in New York," he says. "If you want to waste your time retrieving her fine, but you'll be watched."

"Thank you," Mary says.

Moriarty turns away from her, gingerly walks past the splinters and shards of the door.

Mary sees him hop on board and strap in. A second later her phone chimes and she looks down to see coordinates.

***

Gunshots. Three loud gun shots sound out. Janine wakes and sees the door to her room open. Her eyes focus on it for a few seconds before springing up from the corner and walking through. She isn't sure what she's going to see on the other side of the door. She doesn't know where she is really. She could easily be still in New York or across the world. When she gets to the other side she finally sees that she's in a house. A very plain house--two stories , unfurnished. She moves to walk down the stairs and glances out the window on her way down. There is grass and trees and she is nowhere she's ever been before. There is nothing but empty land as far as the eye could see. She really could have screamed forever and no one would hear her.

Once she's down the stairs she expects to see Aedan there checking in on her, but instead she sees Mary standing at the home's front door. Janine says nothing and raises her eyebrow only slightly. Mary presses her lips tight then speaks.

"Would you be so kind as to help me kill our ex's?" Mary asks.

"If it means getting out if here then yes," Janine says.

"It does."

"Then let's go."

Mary smiles and presses her lips tightly shut. Janine says nothing else. It's an old show they've played before. 'Would you be so kind' meaning your answer should always be in the affirmative, regardless of the truth. Two word responses mean you should indicate it's time to leave. They've played this scene before, but never like this. Usually the audience is right beside them. Right now Janine notices no one. Mary walks outside and so does Janine. They get in a car and Mary slips behind the wheel of the car. Mary points to the back seat where a change of clothes waits.

As Janine slips the "I love New York" t-shirt on and the new trainers, Mary fiddles with the radio , scanning it over and over until she finally lets a song play. It's the Police singing "I'll be watching you."

Janine's eyes immediately dart to the mirror and notices behind them on this very desolate road is another car following not far away. They drive to JFK airport and exit the vehicle. Mary leaves the car behind, keys on the seat. As they approach the counter Mary hands over cards, passports, etc until they are on a plane. Janine notices two large gentleman are seated just behind them.

It's not a long flight from NYC to Heathrow but Janine finds herself drifting off. She wakes with a start and Mary covers her hand with hers and gives it a squeeze. Janine continues to say nothing-- her quick , shallow breathing saying more than she'd like.

 

***

Sherlock had taken a shower and found pyjamas to change into. John had no clothes and so he was walking around in a robe from the closet. Normally he'd care,but he simply didn't right now. Happily didn't.

When Sherlock got out of the shower, John was waiting to have his turn and kissed him on exit then handed him a towel. Sherlock looked at him like he was impossibly perfect. He then tried to get in the shower with John.

"No, you berk," John said and closed the door with a grin.

It was weird and definitely a bit odd but part of john didn't want to wash Sherlock off him. He wanted the evidence on his skin that it happened but maybe later there'd be more. Maybe. It was odd, it was good, it was right. And damn if it he didn't hear a bit of music playing in his head. It was the kind of song they played in the movies after the main guy had made the decision to face everything head on then found that making the decision wasn't so hard in the end. It was already made for him.

And that's how it was for John. He was meant to be here. He knows now. But he hasn't said and neither has Sherlock, well Sherlock had said on the phone that time but that was before tall, dark ,and annoyingly handsome was kissing on Sherlock.

Later when Anthea arrived not long after Sherlock had sent the text requesting food, she gave no indication that she knew what took place. But John didn't care one blip and even smiled as he opened the door and took the food with a "Ta!" before closing it again. They had decided to spread the food on the bed but she'd brought so much that they ended up on the floor. Sherlock tossed down two blankets and there they sat eating in silence.

John sees Sherlock eyeing the last yellowtail and he goes for it. Sherlock is too fast for him and picks it up and is about to swoop it in his mouth when he looks at John, sets it down.

"You have it."

"No, no it's fine," John says and he sits his chopsticks down. Waits for Sherlock to pick up the roll. He does just a second later and John dreamily smiles at him. Sherlock looks back at him with a heat in his eyes that John matches and then John's eyes drift down to Sherlock's neck. Maybe later is now because he just wants to touch now that he finally is here.

Then Sherlock's phone pings with a text. It's sat on the blanket not far from the food and John glances at it. He sees the name of "Victor" on the screen but Sherlock simply turns over the phone.

"Do you -uh -need to get that?"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock says but then his silence is telling john that it isn't. So John clears his throat and looks away. Turns back to the rest of the food as if it has an answer for him.

They've had sex and yet here they are ignoring another conversation. But John supposes that's fine really. There are more important things. It can wait. Surely.

"Well," he says. "Look Sherlock, I know we've got to talk about things and I know you don't want to-"

"No," Sherlock says quickly.

"Right. I understand. Lestrade is missing and Moriarty is out there and we don't have time for this. I do get it."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. This isn't new. Well this, " John says and tilts his head with a smile." is a bit but the rest you know. I know the work comes first. I've always known."

Sherlock hums a sound of agreement even though he isn't sure that he's always known that.

"So what do you have?" John asks.

"I have nothing."

"You've got to have something."

"I searched the place. Mycroft did. Victor did. Nothing of note to be found."

"Then we go back and look again. Whatever we have to do to find Greg and bring him back safe. So." John stands up and walks over to find a folder on the arm chair. "What do we have here?" John pulls out all the pieces from the folder and lays them out on the bed. Sherlock sees him and smiles to himself before standing and going to look over it all. Stood next to John he looks down at the evidence carefully laid out. Then he looks over at John who is staring down intently trying to see something to help Sherlock. How could he have ever tried to do this without John? That was his mistake. That was the something he missed.

"Sherlock, whats this?" John asks. He picks up a piece of paper and hands it to Sherlock.

"It was Moriarty's note."

"D for my M? Well he's got our detective inspector. So whats this 'M' he's talking about?"

"What? Detective?"

"Well it's a ransom note isn't it? So he has Greg --D. And he wants his M. You don't suppose he means Mary do you?"

"Dear God. It is a Ransom Note. Sent ages before he actually took someone." Sherlock drops the note and looks at John and takes a breath then stops himself from saying it, and God he wants to say it, he's bursting to say it and hear it back. Instead he says "How did you?"

"What am I right? No, of course not."

"Well half-right." Sherlock quirks a smile "M is Moran. We rumored it that he was killed in a quick trial. I actually thought he was dispatched before my return but he wasn't. So Moriarty didn't believe the rumor and he must be back for his right hand man. The factory. The gun type. Everything was him saying this. John, I know where we need to go."

"Good," John says. "So Greg could be alive then?"

"I believe so," Sherlock says and for the first time he truly does believe it. "And after he's safe I'll put a bullet in Moriarty's head so he can never take anyone I care about again."

John moves his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and gives it a squeeze.

"No," John says. "Let me do this." Then John smiles. "Besides can't trust you to kill the bastard." John gives a hollow laugh and Sherlock smiles in return.

"I think you'll remember I did just fine with Magnussen."

"Lucky shot. The poncy bastard was standing right there."

Sherlock gives a giggle at this and John can't help but grin in return.

"Shall we?" Sherlock says. "You'll find a change of clothes and your gun outside the door."

John removes his hand from Sherlock after a quick squeeze and opens the door to the room. Stacked neatly are a pair of his clothes with boxers. Also his gun and a key ring that says BMW.

"So Mycroft just slipped over to my place to fetch me some clothes?"

"Anthea," Sherlock says while pulling off his pyjamas preparing to dress.

"God," John says. "How much is she paid to deal with you two?"

"More than the heads of BBC, BT Group, and Ineos combined."

"Right. So I never stood a shot," John says. "Well I'll get dressed,"

Sherlock points to the bathroom. John raises his eyebrows but heads to the bathroom as directed. Sherlock follows and closes the door with a smile. John starts pulling on his pants and things, trying not to think about Anthea picking him out clothes.

When she picked him up, he wasn't sure what was going on. She wouldn't say. She looked solemn and didn't even look at her phone. Just stared out the window as if she was avoiding his gaze. It was the most out of character thing he'd known her to do so he started to worry.

"Just, just tell me if something's happened to Sherlock and I won't ask anything else."

She turned from the window and looked back at him, giving him a blank expression that he was sure even Sherlock couldn't read. "I'm taking you to him."

"Oh," John said. The relief flooded through him and he felt a pang of guilt. Molly had told him about Greg being taken, and he tried to get in touch but no one was responding. Then Anthea showed up and changed everything. On the drive he thought of a thousand things he wanted to say to Sherlock. Most of them included yelling and cursing. But then he saw Sherlock. And it all went away.

And this is good. They're together now. In the same room at least and so that means...something. All the other things left unsaid and undid can wait. At least Sherlock isn't making him stay behind anymore. Unless, John thinks.

John throws the bathroom door open to see if this was a diversion. If the clothes and ushering him off to the bathroom was just a way to get him to stay behind. The empty room that meets his view seems to say that.

He throws open the room's door and yells, "Sherlock?" but no answer comes. Could be Sherlock doesn't feel the need to answer so he tries again. "Sherlock, if you're here answer me." John waits a long moment then heads back to the room to get the rest of his clothes. He can't have done this to him. He looks for his shoes then sits on the bed where they finally seemed to understand each other not even hours before. But apparently that was all a lie if Sherlock left him. John's hand moves to his leg and squeezes. This is not the first time Sherlock left him. If Sherlock gets hurt though, will it be the last?

"John?"

Jon looks up and sees Sherlock leaning against the door. Fully dressed. Smiling.

"I thought," John says then stops "Alright?" he says, tries not to say more, to give voice to the worry.

"Had to make a few calls."

"Right," John says.

"John, there's something I should say. I wasn't going to say but one of the phone calls was from my parents and," Sherlock pauses. He walks towards John and settles down beside him on the bed. Side by side. John doesn't turn towards him. Not sure what this is, probably the brush off he knew was coming. "I don't--"

  
John turns towards him quickly, kisses him quiet. He turns the kiss into a slow caress, waits until Sherlock gets the hint that John is going to take his time with this and then slowly, methodically moves within Sherlock's mouth and kisses him until he feels Sherlock understands. When he pulls back Sherlock has a stunned look on his face. It is not unlike the time he went quiet after John told him he was his best friend. And God why didn't John see it then?

"I don't want to wait," John says. "And I know this is important. But I want to be clear, very clear. I know you were with Victor and I know it's my fault for waiting so long to get my head out my ass but I'm...look I- The fact is that it might not be requited on your part anymore but I --"

"No," Sherlock says.

"No?" John asks and he tries to get the defeated look off his face when his voice surely sounds it enough. "Okay.

"No, I mean. It is. It is requited."

"Oh," John says. "So... Victor?"

Sherlock shrugs lightly. "It was a ruse mostly, take the danger off you, make whoever was watching think I'd replaced you."

"Ahh," he looks up at Sherlock under eyelashes, an embarrassed tint on his cheeks. "It worked," John says.

"I'd say."

"So."

"So. Shall we go rescue Lestrade then come back and have a lot of sex?"

John laughs. "Oh, God, yes."

Sherlock stands and heads toward the door. John gets his final things on and ties his shoes, heads toward the door.

"Really? Anthea makes that much money?" John asks.

"You should know I'm going to be a terribly jealous partner,John. Also you're not her type."

"And what's that then?"

"Men who aren't shagging the boss' little brother."

 

***

Mary and Janine disembark almost last save the two gentleman who seem to be their tail. After a quick drive they arrive at the Savoy. Janine hasn't been here since her first interview with Charles Augustus Magnussen four years ago. This visit probably won't end much better for her.

Janine and Mary enter the room and a few seconds later there is a knock at the door. Room service is there rolling in a tray. Mary tips him handsomely with two ten pound notes and offers a quiet thank you. The ill-fitting suit on the tall, bony man seems so out of place and Janine is sure that he's not on the staff here but she says nothing as he leaves.

Mary doesn't lift the tray but instead moves to stand in front of Janine. Mary silently takes off her jacket, her shirt, bra. Janine follows suit and strips off clothes until they are both nude. Janine turns her back to Mary then Mary's hands move over her neck, shoulders, and back. Then Mary does the same turn. Janine moves her hands along Mary's skin. They continue on each body part, hands roving over themselves and then each other again until each area is inspected. No raise in skin. No new scars. They probe their mouths with their tongues and push each tooth around. They enter the bathroom and stand side by side in the mirror and look at their gums. No raises in skin either. Nothing.

Finally Mary turns on the shower and enters, Janine follows right behind her. The water falls over them lightly. Mary walks close to Janine. Gives her a hug. Janine pushes her away. Shakes her head no but then a shudder of a breath and Janine lowers her head and cries. Mary is calm. Lets her have this moment, knows Janine needs this. Just like Mary needs to be the one to take Jim out. Mary trusts Janine to know this.

"You okay?" Mary asks her.

"Yes." She lies. That's always the right answer even when it's obviously so wrong.

"Good," Mary says and looks around. The weight of it all settles on her shoulders. Her eyes close, she lets out a slow breath. She knows they are safer than they were even hours earlier but miles to go. It's not time yet. At least they are finally alone enough to talk. So she stands up straight, let's her spine stretch, her chin rise. "So what are we going to do?" She asks.

She has a feeling that Janine will be okay with her plan but she needs to trust her before she says anything.

"I'm open to suggestions. All I know is I don't want to go back in that box again. And if I'm being honest I don't want more blood on my hands. But I will if I have to."

"You have to."

"Okay then."

"The best way to them is to find Seb. Your brother's last message to me was that he's at some high-level prison along with a present for you. And you know what present means."

"Bomb. Guns. Terror. What a gift."

"Only the best for his little sister," Mary says and reaches out a hand to brush a piece of hair out of her face and back with the rest. Mary can only imagine that Moriarty would have kept Janine locked away until she died. She doesn't want to imagine what he would do to her child. She'd kept her little girl in the back of her mind for a while. She imagined her doing things like her first Christmas, getting a hair cut, playing with frogs like Mary used to do, maybe making mud pies. But she had to put her out of her mind when she found that it was harder to take out a mark when she let herself think that perhaps he was a father to a young girl like hers. So she failed the mission. Jim hadn't been kind after that. She came home to find her apartment had been burned to the ground. Eight people in the surrounding apartments were killed and Jim had said that it was the only thing he could do to make himself feel better after her failure.

Mary used all her intel and favors to find the target again. The rebel general in Cambodia was trying to fight the corrupt capital. He'd been doing well to keep out of sight for such a long time but Mary found him. She didn't make it a long range shot. Just killing him wouldn't have been enough for Jim. So she joined the cause, she blended in, and she waited until the time was right. And one night she entered into his tent, smiled, set down a small video camera and walked over to him while unbuttoning her top. She then knocked him out and cut off his head with a jagged, rusty knife.

Jim smiled when she gave the video to him, kissed her on the top of her head, and said "Good girl."

It wasn't far after that he'd assembled her, Sebastian, and Janine together to explain his plan. When she heard that he'd died on the roof that day she wondered if he really was gone or if he'd cheated death. But when she tried to check in with him there was no reply. Still she contacted him every week, then every month, and the last time was the day Sherlock had come back.

She'd popped off to the loo knowing that John was about to propose. She freshened up, came out from the bathroom, and then spotted him from the balcony. She watched Sherlock enter the restaurant. And she didn't want to but maybe this was how it was supposed to happen. So she called to report in, Sherlock Holmes was alive, and if he ever was going to return her call within the five minute allotted response time then now was it.

She watched Sherlock pick up glasses, draw on mustache, add a bow tie. She wasn't sure what he was doing at the table. John didn't recognize him. And then Sherlock left again. Maybe he was just checking in on John.

She looked down at the timer on her phone, five minutes gone by, no return call, nothing. She thought he must well and truly be dead. And for the first time she was giddy, she was free. She smiled bright. Maybe now was the time to really try to be a happy nurse and wife. But from that first night John couldn't sleep after seeing Sherlock then John couldn't go a day without him. She wasn't jealous. She just felt like the life she had tried to commit to didn't want to commit to her. Still she tried. Suppose it was never really going to be okay. Not when she has so much to clear up. So much to fix. Like this.

They both leave the shower and towel off. Mary brushes her teeth quickly and exits the bathroom. Janine spends a little more time with it being her first time in days. Mary plugs in her phone and her backup phone into a charger. She picks up the lid of the tray that was delivered earlier. Another phone is sat there. She picks it up, reads quickly, types out a message and then puts it back on the tray, slips the lid on.

She opens up the bag and pulls one of the guns out of its case and sets it on the nightstand. She clicks off the lamp and climbs into bed, closes her eyes. Tomorrow they kill, tomorrow they may die. Tomorrow...tomorrow.

Her eyes are drifting shut and she can feel sleep coming soon. It's never a problem for her in a stressful situation, she has to take her rest when she could. The sun will be up in a few hours and she'll hopefully sleep through it, sleep through the day. Later at night they'll approach and she'll see what they can do. She is drifting off to sleep when she feels the bed dip, and Janine climbs in, wraps herself around the back of Mary, presses close.

They have two beds but Mary knows what this is and she won't begrudge Janine the warmth of human touch and she, herself, misses it too. Who knows? It may be their last chance. Mary turns around and holds her too, presses her lips to Janine's and kisses her, shows her the love that she needs, deserves, and also takes some for herself. She pulls back after minutes of kisses and drifting, gentle hands probing and caressing with care.

"Tell me what you want," Mary says.

"Just make me forget."

"You know I can't," Mary says a bit firmly then adds. "And I wouldn't want to. You have to remember what was done because tomorrow will be hard. And the only way to get through it is to remember what he's done and what he can do."

"Anna, I know. I know," Janine says and she surges forward to kiss her then whispers against her lips. "Then just help me fall asleep with a smile on my face."

"That I can do," Mary says with a grin.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to read chapter 14. I posted them both really close together so don't want you to miss anything....Thanks ^_^.

A text.

A phone call.

A set of coordinates hand delivered along with special badges and two keys.

Then they are there. Their identification is checked at the gate, then not hundred meters later it is checked again. And then finally Sherlock and John are buzzed into the facility. Sherlock uses his badge to enter the place and hands the other to John. When it's time to enter another room, Sherlock and John must stand on separate sides of a door and turn their keys simultaneously. Finally they enter where there are no guards but many cameras. The white walls seems to stretch far.  They walk for ages until they reach the end of a hall. Their identities is checked again before they are given entry to an elevator. John takes a glance around, it doesn't seem like any prison he's been to, not that he's been to a lot of prisons.

"Who is it we're seeing here, Sherlock? Hannibal Lecter?"

"Doctor Lecter killed with cause. This man is just a hired gun."

"Who?"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's chief assassin and the man who was supposed to kill you."

"Oh. He? Ahh," John says. He nods. Takes his arms behind his back as if on parade rest. "I just-I  didn't expect him to be..."

"What?"

"I just assumed. Well. Doesn't matter."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. So he's the 'M' for sure then?"

Sherlock looks at John curiously then he sees.  He pushes John against the wall of the elevator, kisses him slow and tenderly, John's hands comes up to wrap around Sherlock's neck. John unashamedly grinds his body forward onto Sherlock and kisses back as good as Sherlock gives. Sherlock pulls back with a gasp, rests his forehead against John's with his eyes closed.

"If it were up to me then the man who threatened your life would be dead. You were right to think it."

"Sherlock, I wasn't..."

"No, I want to tell you. He would be dead, but he had information at the time that would save the lives of thousands. My brother felt we should keep him in custody rather than put him down. His information was pivotal in taking down Moriarty's web but the second he's no longer useful, Mycroft has promised that he will be dealt with."

John smiles. "Alright."  He leans up and kisses Sherlock slow, nipping at his bottom lip, taking it into his mouth and giving it a gentle suck before pulling back and giving a glance to the corners.  Sure enough there are cameras.  He drops his hands and takes a step back. "We should uh..."

"Yes," Sherlock says.

"You think we can talk him into deleting that footage."

"Well he does owe you a favor."

"More than one surely. Shagging his little brother back from the brink should earn me at least three favors"

Sherlock laughs and turns and starts to walk out the elevator which rings and opens just then. Three more doors and five codes including a retina and hand print scan later they enter a room with two men standing outside on guard.  Sitting shackled to a table, looking the picture of health, and smug as can be sits a man who sits upright with tight posture. His wavy blonde hair and blue eyes make him look almost kind. His eyes narrow as they enter and a smile spreads across his face.

"Mr. Holmes, I never thought I'd meet you."

"We both know that's not true, Mr. Moran," Sherlock says.

"Come now. We're old pals. Call me Colonel. You too, captain." Moran says then lets his eyes snap to John.  "So you're him. My last target. The reason this one died. Amazing." Moran lets his eyes once again rove from tip to toe over John Watson.  "I bet no one understands it."

John doesn't want to say anything but he wrinkles his nose, tightens his lips.

"We're not here to talk about John.  We're here to talk about your employer."

"Husband actually. We were married in the states. Honeymooned in Brazil. Plus we had a hit to complete. It was beautiful."

"And yet he left you here to rot for three years," Sherlock says pointedly. 

"He'll come for me. He said this might happen. Laid it all out. I just had to wait.  Give you a few pieces of information to make sure I stayed alive. He said one day you'd show up and then... Oh it'll be fun. But I was talking about John." 

His eyes move back to John, and it can be described in no better way than to call it a leer then he licks his lips.

"God look at you, Captain. No one sees it do they? They just see a soldier but you're so much more. You don't just follow, you lead.  And yet. Where has this one lead you?  You know it's just a game to him."

"I don't want to hear it," John says tersely.

"But you're going to listen because he thinks as long as I'm talking then it means that he can learn something about me. Isn't that right Sherlock?" Moran turns to look at Sherlock who says nothing and then Moran turns back, eyes firmly on John.

"So captain has he turned you? Made you a part of his little game? Made you forget all about James Sholto? All about our dear sweet, what did we decide to call her?  Mary?"

  
John's lips tighten, he breathes slow, works to keep his face free of any emotion.

"Oh trust me. I get it. Genius between your legs is a beautiful feeling but there's something you should know."

"What?" John spits out, hating himself just a little bit for giving into this little show.

"I'm going to put a bullet in your head before you get a chance to do that again."

Just then the lights go off, only a second goes by and the emergency lights flicker on.  It's not dark but not very bright. John and Sherlock turn as they hear gun shots. 

"Now what was I saying earlier?" Moran asks and in the dim light John and clearly see his disgusting grin. "Right. This. He said this would happen. Said you'd show up and he wouldn't be far behind. He promised I'd get to kill you both."

A guard knocks on the door and opens it then. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. We both need to get you secure."

"What's happening?" Sherlock asks.

"There are armed men at the gate and it appears they have friends. A few of our own guards appear to be helping them."

"I think I'll kill you first, Mr. Holmes," Moran says calmly. "Or at least wound you enough so that the good doctor here knows you're dying and he can't save you. Then I'll put a bullet in his brain. Like I was supposed to before."

  
Sherlock says nothing and John doesn't either. They leave in silence. the door clicking shut firmly. John turns to the guard "Are these doors secure?"

"Yes sir, Captain, runnin' on the back up power, sir."

  
"Stay here and call for back up. You'll need it."

The young guard looks scared and John remembers that look in so many young men's eyes when he was in Afghanistan. All the fun of playing war had gone out their eyes upon the first bit of action. The guard seems to not want to ask but he seems to be unable to help himself. John waits for him to get it out "What's, what's comin' sir?"

  
"Nothing, good soldier. Listen, you're trained and you can handle it. Just keep your eyes sharp. We'll check back in soon. Where can we get one of radios?"

"I have one here sir."

"Already on the correct channel?"

"Yes sir, Captain. 14 and back up is 11."

"Right. You'll be fine. Remember your training," John says with a nod. 

"Come on John," Sherlock calls. Sherlock takes off in a run down the narrow hall with John close behind.

"What are you thinking? It's just me and a gun , Sherlock. I'm not sure what I can do if Moriarty has an army with him."

"He's here with a goal and no matter what that deluded man back there thinks, its not just him."

"Sherlock, he, what was he talking about?"

"Not now," Sherlock ducks behind a corner just in time to miss a spray of bullets.  John and Sherlock crouch down. John points to a corner area and Sherlock nods. They make a run then stop to check the area.

  
"Yes now, Sherlock."

  
"That day, that day he was there to kill you. Apparently they knew my plans all along. He let himself get caught, to be here, but why? What is here that Moriarty would need three years to find?"

"What's all here?"

"Top 10 Criminals. Enemies of the state mostly. And their files, their criminal histories. Records. Not much else according to Mycroft."

"Well I suppose it'll be in that not much else that we'll figure it out. Come on, in here." Sherlock swipes his badge and they enter an empty room. It's bleak and dirty. A single chair sits in the middle of the room. A small window far too high up and far too small for anyone to climb through lets  the tiniest sliver of moonlight hit Sherlock's face, highlighting every beautiful angle.  John stares just for a second thinking about how he doesn't want to lose him again, not even for a minute. He has to do whatever is needed to keep him.

Sherlock's phone lights up and John sees his email downloading information. 

"What is that?"

"A data list from Mycroft. All the information on the place, the types of information kept here."  Sherlock scrolls through his phone furiously trying to review the information and trying to see what he needs to get to in order to end this.  Sherlock growls and pockets his phone. "The information isn't downloading fast enough. I need  to understand why they are here, why now."

"What do you need, Sherlock?"

"More time. I can't quite see the pattern." They hear a large blast and small dusting of debris falls. John moves to shield Sherlock. "They're getting closer."

"Okay," John says. "I- I'll lead them away from there. You stay here."

  
"No."

"It'll give you the time you need and I can get a line of sight on what we're up against."

"I can't let..."

"If you start that damsel in distress stuff again."

"But."

"You went out for two years  for me right? Let me do this. Okay?"

"But will you come back?"

"Don't I always come to you?" John smiles, leans over and gives Sherlock a quick peck then moves to leave taking in one last look at Sherlock. He is about to the open the door when he turns back. Sherlock stands and runs to him. Holds him tight. They pull back from each other. John leans his forehead against Sherlock's. "You're right. Look I saw boys go to their deaths and they left plenty unsaid. If I don't come back--"

"No. John..."

"If I don't come back then think about me every now and then but don't let it ruin you. You're amazing,  Sherlock.  And I don't want to be the cause of that ever changing."

"John..."

"But I am planning on coming back okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock says. "I -"

"I know."

"No , you can't possibly know this."

"What?"

"I want to spend every moment of my life with you. Making you feel like I deserve what you've given to me, John Watson."

"Sherlock..."

"And I know I don't. There is no reason you should care for me. To have stayed despite--John, thank you."

John kisses him and smiles. Then with a squeeze of Sherlock's shoulder he heads out the door. Sherlock sends a message to Mycroft and second later he receives a response advising that backup is at least ten minutes out, not including the layers of security they'll need to get penetrate before getting down there.  

Sherlock goes back to the data and tries to read it quickly. Then he hears someone saying his name. 

He doesn't have time to parse out the sound before a loud boom rocks the place, followed by an even larger blast.  Sherlock is thrown on his back, head hit and his eyes close as his ears fill with a ringing sound. The bomb must have been close, he thinks. He opens his eyes and tries to stand but falls back for a second. He gives another try and staggers forward and falls to the floor.

"John?"

He smells the dust in the air, feels warm liquid on his face and puts his fingers to it and pulls back to see red. His ears are ringing but he knows he must get up. He must move. He's got to find John.  Sherlock stumbles to his feet and gets to the door.

He finds the strength to move forward and then finally finds his bearings.  Then he looks out. There are a few men down on the ground but spares no thought for them. None of their dust-covered uniforms match the same ones he noticed on their way in. They are similar for sure, and would fool a casual passerby but the cut on the shoulders is different. Most likely part of their disguise to enter the facility. 

"Sherlock!" He hears his name and turns to see Mary standing there with a gun pointed at him. He turns to look behind him and sees on the ground at the end of the hall, unmoving, is John Watson's body.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCKIN DONE!

Sherlock can't and doesn't think. He runs to John, falls to the ground beside him.  He hears the patter of Mary running away and he looks back only momentarily to confirm her receding steps. He turns over John and stares at him. Eyes closed but breathing.  He brushes back the dust on his face. Checks the back of his head, no blood. 

 

"John?" he says. "John, please?" 

 

A long second later John coughs and comes to with a start. 

 

"Sherlock," John says. "I think Mary is here. I think she set off that bomb."

 

"Yes, a distraction. But from what I don't know."

 

"Then let's bloody find out." John seems to shake his head as if to clear it. He gets to his feet and runs down the hall to where Mary was standing. Sherlock stares at him. "I saw her standing here just before that bomb went off. I was about to go into the next area to lay down some fire when a bullet hit the wall right next to the door and I turned around. Then the bomb went off."

 

"I see. Good."

 

"Good?"

 

"I'm glad you stopped before going in," Sherlock says. "The bomb obviously came from right outside this area." Sherlock stands and points from the entry point of the bomb's blast and over the debris. John follows its path. It definitely came from just outside the door he nearly walked through.

 

"Right."

 

Sherlock moves towards John and pulls up his phone.

 

"Follow me."   They round and follow down a clear path. "According to....yes. Right here." They stop at a large door which remains intact. A large glowing red light indicates the security system is still working at least for this door.  Sherlock waves his badge. He and John enter.  As soon as they are in the door locks click into place and lights flick on with a buzz.

 

 It's a small space but it's filled with large, black file cabinets. John opens up one and finds a file one Adam Algar. The file includes photos of him and then a list of his victims. 

 

"Sherlock look at this," John says. Sherlock walks over and they both read the file together. It shows the man was trained by the government but then he was relieved of duty. 

 

"His current location is Kent. Inactive."

 

Sherlock takes out the next file in the cabinet and reads about William Acton. Trained in espionage. He was a chemist who created drugs nearly impossible to detect which kills in seconds. Sherlock walks a few paces and opens up another cabinet. He pulls another file out with the name of Peter Carey on it.  Out falls a set of photos. It's all dead children. Sherlock reads aloud.

 

"Ex-SIS. Ex-CIA. Specializes in hard kills such as the infirm, the elderly, and...children."

 

"God. Sherlock, what is this? Files of the world's worst people?"

 

"Yes, that's exactly what it is," Sherlock says. "The information....it was kept only on paper. One copy. Not in computers. So he couldn't just have someone hack it. And the security here is tight. You have to be in service for at least 4 years. Undergo a variety of psychological testing. Who knows how many tried and failed?  And were most likely killed afterwards. It would take time to amass enough in employ here to turn the time in an ambush."

 

"Sherlock, are you going to clue me in here?"

 

"This is what he was here for. Don't you see, John?"

 

"I don't love. Please get me there with you."

 

"I destroyed his web. Part of it. A great deal of it. But he always had a contingency plan. The man who died on that roof was not Moriarty It could not have been. Perhaps a double. Like myself.  And he put his own plan into place. He must've gave Moran the go to reveal as much information as he needed to be kept alive, but also put him here."

 

Sherlock's phone flashes with a message. 

 

_Footage reveals all soldiers are dead save three. You have company. Get out now, Sherlock-MH._

 

"Those men are coming for his information. They're here to get Moriarty the information he needs to start a new web, more vast, better trained, and-"

 

"Full of batshit crazy people who've been in retirement waiting for this. God."

 

"We have to protect this information. I know this is...we just..." Sherlock walks to John, and peers down into his face. "I'm not sure what will happen. If we."

 

"It's fine, Sherlock," John says and lifts a hand to Sherlock's face. Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, tilts his head into the warmth of John's palm. He opens his eyes and takes a step back.

 

"If we could destroy the records or....start a fire? Better they be destroyed that he gain them."

 

"No hope of survival and no way to get to all the records in enough time."

 

A loud blast shakes the room followed by a spray of gunfire. They both look to the door.

 

"How much can that door withstand?"

 

"Plenty of gunfire. Maybe even a grenade. A few of them and I believe they would find entry."

 

"So we need to try to lead them away"

 

"This is their goal, John."

 

"So what else could be their goal too? What else would cause them to leave this behind...even momentarily?"

 

"Moran." They both say it at the same time.

 

The gunfire continues and then a large blast.  John goes to near the door, tries for a gamble. He shouts. "Moran is hurt. I am a doctor. If you want him to live you'll stop firing and let me go attend to him."

 

The gunfire stops and it becomes eerily silent.

 

John looks back at Sherlock.

 

"I have to go."

 

"No, once they realize he's not hurt then they'll kill you."

 

"I have a plan."

 

"John..."

 

"Trust me. Don't you trust me?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Will the door lock after me?"

 

"It will."

 

"You stay here then. Safe," John says with a smile.  

 

Sherlock nods his head.  John leaves and the door clicks into place.

***

John walks out, hears the lock click into place. He knows he could very well go to his death , but maybe he'll give Sherlock just enough time to figure it out, to be his genius self. He won't just wait here to watch Sherlock die. Not if he can do anything, everything to stop it. Even if it means letting these men take an aim at him. If it works then they won't get to take the final shot. If it doesn't then he'll die knowing he tried to protect Sherlock.

He nods to the men and says, "He's up here." He points towards the stairs and starts walking up. 

"We know where he is," the man in front says. His accent is British, but John doesn't trust accents anymore.  Not after Mary. John starts walking up the stairs and glances over his shoulders. He notices two are following him, but one stays behind, his head bowed, turned away from John.   Fine, he thinks. The odds are better this way. When they enter the room where Moran was being held, John walks around. So he's free. But if he's free then why did. He looks up. A gun is pointed, mere centimeters from his face. 

"Jim Moriarty sends his best, Doctor Watson."

There is no click and John knows that is enough time. He reaches out, grabs the gun barrel first, and throws it to the floor. At the same time he aims a swift kick at the other sending him reeling back into the wall.  The other man tried to aim a blow at John's head with his right first, but John ducks. He rears back and head-butts the man. The man stumbles back. 

John falls to the floor and grabs the gun then is up again in an instant. He makes a rush at the man and pushes him back against the other who is trying to get up now. They pummel into each other. John quickly aims and fires off two rounds. One in each man's ankle. Both men scream out. John lifts the gun and aims a swift blow to the back of each man's head and the both slump against the wall. 

Just then John sees ten more men in similar fashion coming down the hall.  He holds the gun, but knows anything in the magazine won't be enough to stop them. The lead states.

"We're here to help, Doctor Watson. We need to secure Holmes and the file room."

"I'll lead you there," John says. He turns to lead them back down when multiple shots ring out in quick succession. He turns around in time to see all the bodies fall to the ground. He crouches down. It's a narrow hallway. The shots would've come from behind them. 

John hears someone running away. He doesn't think and moves to give chase. He runs, takes a turn down a hall. He sees the person run into a room. "Close it! Lock him out" He hears the man say. Moran. John runs to stop the door locking shut. If it's on the same security as the file room where he left Sherlock then this might be his only chance to stop him. John runs and before the door closes he bursts through then comes to a fast stop.

Moran isn't running. He gives a knowing smirk. Those words were for show to get him to run in here.

Standing next to Moran is Mary and Janine.  Across the room, Mary lifts her gun and aims it at John.

"Mary."

She nods her head in acknowledgement. Says nothing.  

 "Bloody Mary," Moran looks over with a smile then back at John. "Jim picked it out you see," he says. 

John doesn't know what to say or what to do. This isn't a place he ever thought he'd be. He can try to rush her but then what? He can't overpower all three of them.

"You should've listened to Beth," she says. John is quiet. He doesn't know what is going on or if he can trust her "Would you be so kind as to tie up our dear old friend?"

"Be delighted" Janine says and walks over to him, she produces a rope, and leans behind John. She ties him up and pushes him onto his knees on the floor.

"Seb, Jim is waiting for you,” Mary says.  "There's only us and they left down here. Let him know the job is done."

Seb turns to Mary and raises an eyebrow. "He'd want me to be sure. I don't know everything that happened since I've been in here.  But the intel I have says you married this man. So if you don't mind I'll stay until there's a bullet in his head and then we can kill Holmes together. Bring his body to Jim." 

Sebastian is holding a Glock 17 with a firm grip. Mary couldn't get off a shot without him getting one off first.

"My pleasure."

Mary cocks the gun and John stares at her straight on.  But he notices the ropes are loose. On accident or on purpose he doesn't know.

"Janine, you go take care of Holmes." 

Mary reaches behind her and removes a gun.  Before the gun changes hands. John frees his hands and takes a run at Moran. He hits Mary as he takes Moran down and the gun meant for Janine falls to the ground.  Moran's gun flies out of his hands but not before a spray of fire comes out. 

John has him on the ground. He punches him one, two, three times, aiming each blow with more face that he's ever used.  Then he quickly turns. Janine. He scrambles to the gun just as Janine lunges for the one Mary meant for her.  Mary leans down quickly and pulls out a second gun from her leg.  Janine aims at John. John moves quickly back and forth between Mary and Janine. He can't decide who is more dangerous to him now. 

"Janine?" Mary asks. Her voice waivers as if he doesn't know if she can trust her.

"Mary," Janine says coolly.

"Are you with me or him?" Mary asks. 

John looks to each of them confused. Both women armed. Janine's gun pointed at John's head, Mary's pointed at both Janine and John.

Janine breathes heavy. She doesn't respond. "I can't go back. If I do this. He might forgive me."

"Janine?" May says almost in a whisper. "I won't ever let you go back. I won't."

Janine bites her lips, breathes out a long steady breath.

"Janine, are you with me or him?" Mary asks again. Janine doesn't look away from John but finally lowers her gun.

"You," she says. "I'm with you." Janine sits he gun on the ground lightly. She turns away from John and walks over to Mary. Mary lowers both her guns. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Mary says.  "Bad habits. I have 'em too."

Mary holds out her hand to Janine who takes it and gives it a squeeze. Janine turns around look at John "Sorry about that. I just. I was scared."

"It's fine," John says and he lowers his gun to his side, but keeps a firm grip on it. 

"Mary..." He has to ask, even if he isn't sure he can trust the answer.

"I said Beth didn't I? And I didn't have Janine tie you up properly."

"You also married me under false pretenses and shot my best friend."

"Old news John," Mary says and she smirks. John can't help but smile and he realizes that the best part of Mary always reminded him of Sherlock a bit.  "Bigger fish to fry," She says.  "Let's go get Sherlock. This isn't over."

"Right," John says. And he moves to take the lead. If they're going to shoot him in the back then now's the chance, but he wants to be the first one to enter the room to see Sherlock in case he has to help him.

Mary moves and Janine squeezes her hand and follows but hangs back and whispers to her.

"So they're both..."

"Oh yeah." 

***

The door opens on Sherlock and he sees John enter followed by Mary and Janine.

"Moran?" Sherlock says.

"Out cold." John says.

"You secured him?" Sherlock asks.

"No, I...." Sherlock takes off past him. Runs with John, Mary, and Janine in tow. "Where?"

"Over there," John says. 

"He's out, Sherlock," Mary says as well.

Sherlock runs and enters the room but Moran is gone.

"No, no, no." Sherlock says. He takes off in a run up stair cases and down halls. No more security to go through and no guards and he makes quick work of getting outside. He finally bursts through the front doors in time to see a helicopter taking off. The retreating faces of Moriarty and Moran are gleaming back at him.

***

Mycroft Holmes walks into the large dining room that always doubles as his war room. He walks past Sherlock and Doctor Watson sat on one side of the table with Mary Morstan and Janine Moriarty on the other. He sits at the head where a folder sits. He doesn't open it, but waits for Anthea who enters, walks to him and then whispers the information and turns to leave. The door clicks shut and the silence settles over them.  

"Detective Inspector Lestrade has been located. The officer with him was one of Moriarty's men. He took him. They never were anywhere near the factory. The ploy would be to get him as far from London and away from cameras. He is fine."

Sherlock does not look up. He knows what is coming. Mycroft's kindness is a precursor.

"As you all know none of us are safe as long as James Moriarty is out there. Certainly not this country and especially those of us in this room."

"My daughter?" Mary asks.

John looks at her and then to Mycroft. Another thing he missed, but he supposes it's not his to know anymore.

"Has been placed in witness protection. The highest possible security is on her. I assure you of her safety," Mycroft says. 

"He'll come for me first," Janine says. 

"The last thing Seb saw was John coming after him. He's no reason to believe you help, Janine." Mary says and places a hand on hers on the table.

"He'll know," Janine says. She looks down at the table, shakes her head. Will he kill her or will he torture her first? She doesn't know. She doesn't know.

"So do we all go into protection then?" Mary asks.

"No," Mycroft says. "Though I suppose you all together in one area would make for one big happy family."

"Get on with it, Mycroft," Sherlock says.

"We are aware of the back web of Moriarty's," Mycroft says.  "Both Sherlock and Mary have destroyed a great deal of it. Thanks to your efforts he will not be able to infuse new talent but the others remain and must be destroyed. Additionally our files on retired or forced from service is but one such set of those files. There are others in America, Russia, China, and Israel."

Mycroft clears his throat and continues. He is unsure of the reaction from the collective. No one follows the reasonable path, least of all his brother.

"I believe this will work two-fold," he says. "First to destroy the remaining members of his web and second to draw Moriarty out again. He's no reason to come out as he has Moran but we must give him reason."

"How?" John asks.

"With your help," Mycroft says to the room.

"Mary, your contacts in America should aide you in capturing a list of people who are funneling money into the Middle East and in particular funding terrorism that is co-sponsored by Moriarty. Janine, I'd like you to go to France and get in contact with Arsène Lupin. I believe you know him."

"I do," Janine says. 

"He helped change the face of your cousin and the man who apparently died on the roof that day against Sherlock. We need to know each face he changed for Moriarty. There may be more. This may be how many have remained in hiding."

"Sherlock is to be dispatched to Russia. He's been successful there before and-"

"If you think I'm letting you send him off to some suicide mission-," John says.

"It is not. He'll be well watched after. The mission should take no more than 6 weeks," Mycroft replies.

"Then I'll be with him," John says.

"No," Sherlock and Mycroft both say.

"Then he is absolutely not going," John says.

"John, your help is needed in Helmand and Kabul.  From the weaponry Moriarty's people had as well as the men who lead the assault at the HRS Prison then he has people there," Mycroft says.

"No!" Sherlock's shout is loud, but ignored by Mycroft.

"You will be well compensated. You need not take anyone down. No kills. Just to provide me with information. We will be taking in the entire infantry soon but we'd like to eliminate any of the innocent up front. Intel gathering nothing more, “Mycroft says this to John but then turns his head to Sherlock pointedly. “This is part of your pardon."

"What?"

"I could do nothing to stop it. You were tasked with stopping Moriarty. That was part of your earlier pardon. "

"And I will do it," Sherlock says.

"I know, but they request this as well. And you must understand these are actions necessary to ensure safety of all."

"'I'll do it," John says. 

"What?" Sherlock says.

"I...want to do it. If you're going to be gone to Russia for a month then I'll go crazy thinking about you out there. At least this way I have something to do besides get a job at a clinic and do a poor job of pretending to help patients while I'm worried about you."

"John, but you'll be..." Sherlock stops himself and turns to look at John.  The look he finds in John's eyes is steel. He is unmovable and Sherlock knows he cannot argue. "Okay," Sherlock says without looking away from John.

"Mary? Janine?" Mycroft says.

"If you'll protect my daughter," Mary says.

"I will do that if you do this or not," Mycroft says pointedly.

John smiles. Fuckin Holmes Brothers.  Their hearts are there, buried hidden but damn well there.

"I'll do it," Mary says.

"I will too," Janine says.

"Good you all leave in the morning," Mycroft says then stands. He starts to walk to the door to exit then turns back, points to the glasses full of amber liquor sat in front of each person.  "It's a 200 year old Glenavon. You should all drink it. It's quite good.  Also it has a tracker inside that won’t flush out for two months so you'll want to have that in you should you need extraction."  Mycroft looks around and settles on his brother and gives him a nod then opens the door and leaves.

Mary and Janine pick up their drink and down them quickly.

John and Sherlock look at their. John gives a weak smile and reaches over to clink Sherlock's then swallows his. Sherlock then does the same.

Sherlock stands up and walks over to stand at the window behind where Mycroft sat earlier. He seems to be contemplating something. John remains seated. Janine walks over to Sherlock, brushes his hair back and leans against the window next to him.

"Sherl, I wanted to say... I'm sorry about what happened back in-"

"You saved my life," Sherlock says.

"And I did it without shooting ya, not bad huh?" She laughs and looks over at Mary who remains seated across from John. Mary flips her the bird.

Sherlock's eyes raise at this. He seems to see it all.

Janine shrugs and gives a smile "Not sure I could be with someone who wasn't at least a little bit fucked up."

"Janine," Sherlock says. It's not his place but he does feel as if he should say something.

"It's not love, Sherl. It's cold comfort and I need it. I'm the sister of a mad man, the ex-employee of a mad-man, and the ex-fiancé of a mad-man. This is better. I'll be okay."

Sherlock weighs this and nods his head in acquiesce.

Mary and John both stand and seem to be moving towards the door. Sherlock cannot hear what they say but they end with a hug and then Janine straightens and gives him a smile. 

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes" she says.

"Goodbye, Janine" Sherlock says. She reaches out her hand he takes it, gives it a firm handshake.

Janine walks away, takes Mary's hand and leaves from the room.

 John walks over to Sherlock, nods his head towards the door.

"Shall we?" Sherlock says.

'"Yeah uh. We staying at Mycroft's then? Assuming 221 is still out for a while with him out there."

"Actually um Buckingham if you don't mind." Sherlock says.

"Buckingham? The queen wants to give us more information on our upcoming mission does she?"

"No, my parents are there currently," Sherlock says. "And I-I'd like to introduce you."

"I've met your parents, Sherlock," John says.

"Yes, but they've ...well my mother. My father as well really. They've--," Sherlock pauses and takes a breath. Looks at John "I would like them to know- in case."

"Okay," John says. He reaches out a hand and settles it on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sounds good." John steps forward takes Sherlock's head in his hands, holds him gently, kisses him then pulls back and whispers against Sherlock's lips. "I'd like that, yeah," John says.

***

John can't help himself and though they've just finished he moves close to Sherlock and licks at his neck. The sweat there is a salty, beautiful reminder of moments ago when Sherlock was beneath him, mouth open, moaning freely and begging John to go harder and then John did just that. And he kissed him until Sherlock stiffened and came with John's name on his lips.

The light is coming through the window and John knows they don't have much time. Sherlock seems to know as well and holds John close.

"The moon. It's so bright tonight," Sherlock says.

"It's the sun, love," John says.

"Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark," Sherlock says.

"Did you-Did you just bloody quote Shakespeare at me?" John asks.

"Maybe."

John laughs. "God. All those years of you poking fun at me writing a bit of poetry for my girlfriends and shag you once and you're quoting Shakespeare at me."

Sherlock laughs. "Shut up."

***

They decide to share a shower then laughs over the appallingly hard to achieve shower sex.

Very few moments are spent cleaning, most are spent with kisses and promises and confessions of love, love, so much love.

"I love you," John says and kisses Sherlock's shoulder. "I love," he says again and moves to his neck.

Sherlock doesn't respond but John takes note of the smile that doesn't leave his face.

***

They open the door and there are clean clothes outside their room. They get dressed in silence and walk down the stairs to the living room. Unlike the night before they are not met with Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock's parents.

On the table though besides a lot of sweets that Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Holmes most likely baked together are two phones. On Sherlock's is a message stating that their parents and Mrs. Hudson are back in protection. 

A text from Harry on John's phone is a reply to a message John never sent saying he'd be out of the country for a bit. She wishes him well and says she never liked Mary anyway so she can't wait to hear what happened there. He replies that he'll explain everything in a few weeks and to contact him if she needs anything. 

Neither eats much, but John notices Sherlock pocketing a few things in his coat. As they leave the house a car is waiting. When they get in the car they find a dossier for each with a code name on each. 

On the drive over they both read the information fully, every so often Sherlock’s hand creeping over to John who would give it a quick squeeze. 

***

Too quickly they are at the airport and they both exit the car. It's the exact same airport, same tarmac except there are now two airplanes instead of one. 

Sherlock stands in front of John. John in front of Sherlock. Not far from the nose of the plane. John takes a look around and then back at Sherlock.

"So what’s the rule on contact?" John asks.

"Once a day," Sherlock responds.

"Just a text, calls are better but I understand. Just don't make me think."

"I won't."

"Right," John says and nods his head.

"John...," Sherlock says.

"If you bloody tell me Sherlock is a girl's name," John says.

"No," Sherlock laughs. "Not that. And you know I was actually trying to tell you something quite different."

"Yeah, I get that now."

"That I loved you,” Sherlock says. "I was trying to say that I loved you."

"Yes.” John laughs.  “I kinda' got that then as well."

"Ahh," Sherlock says. "Good."

Sherlock reaches out a hand to shake Johns. John takes it then pulls Sherlock close. John kisses him deeply then walks to his plane with a grin on his face, walks up to the stairs and turns to back give Sherlock a wave before the door closes.

Sherlock watches John's plane take off and then boards his.

 

FIN

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final notes: I really did write this fic for myself and because I've written it for myself and as I said upfront ...Me likely talking...there will be a five chapter coda of 99% dialogue (chats, texts, convos). It just adds a bit to the story but you can stop reading now. I consider this story donesies. But I just fuckin love making these two assholes talk their shit out and though they're together...they still got shit to talk about ya know so I'm gonna add that on later. So stay subscribed if you'd like to read those as well.
> 
> Anyhoo thanks for reading. I so appreciate it. I'll be doing a final edit (Oh GOD so many mistakes to fix) before taking this story off private.
> 
> Thanks again for riding along.


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